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■IffiEMW 


^OD 


RAB,  AND  MARJORIE  FLEMING. 

JOHN   LEECH. 

THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER. 

BY 

JOHN   BROWN,  M.  D. 

•     ILLUSTRATED. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


^\ 


n  5 


13  ^v    --- 
^?5  \ 


RAB,  AND  MARJORIE  FLEMING. 


^ 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
RAB  AND  HISj  FRIENDS 9 

MARJORIE  PLEMIXG 43 


*^2sveS^ 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

IvAB     .........    Frontispiece. 

Page 
"A  white  bull-terrier  is  throttling  a  large  shepherd's 
dog" 15 

"  Then  taking  Jess  by  the  head,  he  moved  away  "  .        .89 

"  The  shepherd  strode  off  with  his  Iamb,  —  Maida  gam- 
bolling through  the  snow  " 53 

•* There  sat  Maidie  in  white" 85 


TO 

MY    TWO    FRIENDS 

At  Busby,  Renfrewshire, 

IN  EESTEMBRAXCE  OF  A  JOURNEY  PROM   CARSTAIR3 
JUNCTIOX  TO  TOLEDO  AXD   BACK, 


^fjis  Storg 


OF 

RAB   A>'D   HIS   FRIENDS' 

IS  INSCRIBED. 


? 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


lOUR-AND-THIRTY  years  ago.  Bob 
Ainslie  and  I  were  coming  up  Infirm- 
ary Street  from  the  Edniburs^h  Hi,di 


School,  our  heads  together,  and  our  arms  inter- 
twisted, as  only  lovers  and  boys  know  how,  or 
why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and 
turned  north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron 
Church.  "A  dog-fight!"  shouted  Bob,  and 
was  off;  and  so  was  I,  both  of  us  all  but  pray- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  over  before  we  got  up  ! 
And  is  not  this  boy-nature  ?  and  human  nature 
too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a  house  on  fire  not 
to  be  out  before  we  see  it  ?  Dogs  like  fight- 
ing ;  old  Isaac  says  they  "  delight  "  in  it,  and 
for  the  best  of  all  reasons ;  and  boys  are  not 
cruel  because  they  like  to  see  the  fight.  They 
see  three  of  the  great  cardinal  virtues  of  dog 


14         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

or  man  —  courage,  endurance,  and  skill  —  in 
intense  action.  This  is  very  different  from  a 
love  of  making  dogs  fight,  and  enjoying,  and 
aggravating,  and  making  gain  by  their  pluck. 
A  boy,  be  he  ever  so  fond  himself  of  fighting, 
if  he  be  a  good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this, 
but  he  would  have  run  oflF  ^ith  Bob  and  me 
fast  enough  :  it  is  a  natural,  and  a  not  wicked 
interest,  that  all  boys  and  men  have  in  witness- 
ing intense  energy  in  action. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely  ignorant  woman 
wish  to  know  how  Bob's  eye  at  a  glance  an- 
nounced a  dog-fight  to  his  brain  ?  He  did  not, 
he  could  not  see  the  dogs  fighting;  it  was 
a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid  induction. 
The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fighting  is 
a  crowd  masculine  mainly,  with  an  occasional 
active,  compassionate  woman,  fluttering  wildly 
round  the  outside,  and  using  her  tongue  and 
her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as  so  many 
*'  brutes  "  ;  it  is  a  crowd  annular,  compact,  and 
mobile ;  a  crowd  centripetal,  having  its  eyes 
and  its  heads  all  bent  downwards  and  inwards, 
to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not 
over :  a  small,  thoroughbred,  white  bull-terrier 
is  busy  throttling  a  large  shepherd's  dog,  unac- 


EAB     AND     HIS     FRIEXDS.         17 

customed  to  war,  but  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
They  are  hard  at  it ;  the  scientific  little  fellow- 
doing  his  work  in  great  style,  his  pastoral 
enemy  fighting  wildly,  but  with  the  sharpest  of 
teeth  and  a  great  courage.  Science  and  breed- 
ing, however,  soon  had  their  own;  the  Game 
Chicken,  as  the  premature  Bob  called  him, 
working  his  way  up,  took  his  final  grip  of  poor 
Yarrow's  throat,  —  and  he  lay  gasping  and  done 
for.  His  master,  a  brown,  handsome,  big  young 
sheplierd  from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have  liked  to 
have  knocked  down  any  man,  would  "drink 
up  Esil,  or  eat  a  crocodile,"  for  that  part,  if  he 
had  a  chance :  it  was  no  use  kicking  the  little 
dog ;  that  would  only  make  him  hold  the  closer. 
Many  were  the  means  shouted  out  in  mouth- 
fuls,  of  the  best  possible  ways  of  ending  it. 
"  Water !  "  but  there  was  none  near,  and  many 
cried  for  it  who  might  have  got  it  from  the  well 
at  Blackfriars  Wynd.  "  Bite  the  tail !  "  and 
a  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle-aged  man, 
more  desirous  than  wise,  with  some  struggle 
got  the  bushy  end  of  Yarroic's  tail  into  his 
ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all  his  might 
This  was  more  than  enough  for  the  much- 
enduring,  much-perspiring  shepherd,  who,  with 
a  gleam  of  joy  over  his  broad  visage,  delivered 


18         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

a  terrific  facer  upon  our  large,  vague,  benevo- 
lent, middle-aged  friend,  —  uho  went  down 
like  a  shot. 

Still  the  Chicken  holds ;  death  not  far  off. 
"  Snuff !  a  piuch  of  snuff !  "  observed  a  calm, 
highly  dressed  young  buck,  with  an  eye-glass 
in  his  eye.  "  Snuft',  indeed  !  "  growled  the 
angry  crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  "  Snuff  ! 
a  pinch  of  snuff !  "  again  observes  the  buck,  but 
with  more  urgency ;  whereon  were  produced 
several  open  boxes,  and  from  a  mull  which  may 
have  been  at  Culloden,  he  took  a  pinch,  knelt 
down,  and  presented  it  to  the  nose  of  the 
Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology  and  of  snuff 
take  their  course ;  the  Chicken  sneezes,  and 
YaiTow  is  free ! 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with 
Yarrow  in  his  arms,  —  comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his 
soul  unsatisfied ;  he  grips  the  first  dog  he 
meets,  and  discovering  she  is  not  a  dog,  in 
Homeric  phrase,  he  makes  a  brief  sort  oi amende, 
and  is  off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and  me  at  their 
head,  are  after  him  :  down  Niddry  Street  he 
goes,  bent  on  mischief ;  up  the  Cowgate  like 
an  arrow,  —  Bob  and  I,  and  our  small  men,  pant- 
ing behind,- 


RAB     AND     HIS     FRIEXDS.         19 

Tliere,  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South 
Bridge,  is  a  huge  mastiff,  sauntering  down  the 
middle  of  the  causeway,  as  if  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  :  he  is  old,  gray,  brindled,  as  big 
as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has  the  Shake- 
spearian dewlaps  shaking  as  he  goes. 
^  The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and  fast- 
ens on  his  throat.  To  our  astonishment,  the 
great  creature  does  nothing  but  stand  still,  hold 
himself  up,  and  roar,  —  yes,  roar ;  a  long,  seri- 
ous, remonstrative  roar.  How  is  this  ?  Bob  and 
I  are  up  to  them.  He  is  muzzled  !  The  bailies 
had  proclaimed  a  general  muzzling,  and  his 
master,  studying  strength  and  economy  mainly, 
had  encompassed  his  huge  jaws  in  a  home-made 
apparatus,  constructed  out  of  the  leather  of 
some  ancient  breechin.  His  mouth  was  open 
as  far  as  it  could  ;  his  hps  curled  up  in  rage,  — 
a  sort  of  terrible  grin ;  his  teeth  gleaming,  ready, 
from  out  the  darkness  ;  the  strap  across  his 
mouth  tense  as  a  bowstring  ;  his  whole  frame 
stiff  with  indignation  and  surprise  ;  his  roar 
asking  us  all  round,  "Did  you  ever  see  the  like 
of  this  ?  "  He  looked  a  statue  of  anger  and 
astonishment,  done  in  Aberdeen  granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd:   the   Chicken   held 
on.      "A  knife!"  cried  Bob;  and  a  cobbler 


20         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

gave  him  his  knife  :  you  know  the  kind  of  knife, 
worn  away  obhquely  to  a  point,  and  always 
keen.  I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense  leather;  it 
ran  before  it ;  and  then  !  —  one  sudden  jerk  of 
that  enormous  head,  a  sort  of  dirty  mist  about 
his  mouth,  no  noise,  —  and  the  briglit  and  tierce 
little  fellow  is  dropped,  limp  and  dead.  A 
solemn  pause :  this  was  more  than  any  of  us 
had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little  fellow 
over,  and  saw  he  was  quite  dead ;  the  nu\slifl' 
had  taken  him  by  tlie  small  of  the  back  like  a 
rat,  and  broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim  appsased, 
ashamed,  and  amazed  ;  snuffed  him  all  over, 
stared  at  him,  and  taking  a  sudden  thought, 
turned  round  and  trotted  oft".  Boh  took  the 
dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "John,  we'll  bury  him 
after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  and  was  ofif  after 
the  mastiff.  He  made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a 
rapid  swing ;  he  liad  forgotten  some  engage- 
ment. He  turned  up  the  Caudlemaker  Row, 
and  stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  start,  and 
a  keen,  thiu,  impatient,  blacka-vised  little  mnii, 
his  hand  at  his  gray  horse's  head,  looking  about 
angrily  for  something. 

"  Rab.  ye  thief  I  "  said  he,  aiming  a  kick  at 


RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS.         'Zl 

my  great  friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,  and 
avoiding  the  heavy  shoe  with  more  agility  than 
dignity,  and  watching  his  master's  eye,  slunk 
dismayed  under  the  cart,  —  his  ears  down,  and 
as  much  as  he  had  of  tail  down  too. 

What  a  man  tliis  must  be,  —  thought  I,  —  tc 
whom  ray  tremendous  hero  turns  tail !  The 
carrier  saw  the  muzzle  hanging,  cut  and  useless, 
from  his  neck,  and  1  eagerly  told  him  the  story, 
which  Bob  and  I  always  thought,  and  still 
think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or  Sir  Walter 
alone  were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The  severe 
little  man  was  mitigated,  and  condescended  to 
say,  "  Rab,  my  man,  puir  Rabbie,"  —  where- 
upon the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up,  the  ears  were 
cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and  were  comforted ; 
the  two  friends  were  reconciled.  "  Hupp  !  "" 
and  a  stroke  of  the  whip  were  given  to  Jess  ; 
and  off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  1  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that 
night  (we  had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back- 
green  of  his  house  in  Melville  Street,  IS'o.  17, 
with  considerable  gravity  and  silence ;  and 
being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like  all 
Doys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector,  of  course. 


'2-Z        RAB    AND    HIS     FRIENDS. 

Six  years  have  passed,  —  a  long  time  for  a 
boy  and  a  dog  :  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars ; 
I  am  a  medical  student,  and  clerk  at  Minto 
House  Hospital. 

Rab  I  saw  almost  every  week,  on  the 
Wednesday ;  and  we  had  much  pleasant  inti- 
macy. I  found  the  way  to  his  heart  by  frequent 
scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an  occasional 
bone.  When  1  did  not  notice  him  he  would 
plant  himself  straight  before  me,  and  stand 
wagging  that  bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up,  with 
his  head  a  little  to  the  one  side.  His  master  I 
occasionally  saw ;  he  used  to  call  me  "  Maister 
John,"  but  was  laconic  as  any  Spartan. 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  1  was  leaving 
the  hospital,  when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open,  and 
in  walked  Rab,  with  that  great  and  easy  saun- 
ter of  his.  He  looked  as  if  taking  general  posses- 
sion of  the  place  ;  like  the  Duke  of  WeUington 
entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated  with  victory 
and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess,  now  white 
from  age,  with  her  cart;  and  in  it  a  woman, 
carefully  wrapped  up,  —  the  carrier  leading  the 
horse  anxiously,  and  looking  back.  When  lie 
saw  me,  James  (for  his  name  was  James  Noble) 
made  a  curt  and  grotesque  "  boo,"  and  said, 
"  Maister  John,  this  is  the  mistress;   she 's  got 


EAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS.         23 

trouble^ia  l4er  breest,  ^some  kiud  o'  an  iiicome 
we  're  thmkiaV^ 

By  tliis  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face ;  she 
was  sitting  on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her 
husband's  plaid  round  her,  and  his  big-coat, 
with  its  large  white  metal  buttons,  over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face,  —  pale, 
serious,  lonely, '^^  delicate,  sweet,  without  being 
at  all  what  we  call  fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and 
had  on  a  mutch,  white  as  snow,  with  its  black 
ribbon ;  her  silvery,  smooth  hair  setting  off  her 
dark-gray  eyes,  —  eyes  such  as  one  sees  only 
twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full  of  suffering, 
full  also  of  the  overcomiug  of  it :  her  eyebrows 
black  and  delicate,  and  her  mouth  firm,  patient, 
and  contented,  which  few  mouths  ever  are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful 
countenance,  or  one  more  subdued  to  settled 
quiet.  "Ailie,"  said  James,  "this  is  Maister 
John,  the  young  doctor ;  Rab's  freend,  ye  ken. 
We  often  speak  aboot  you,  doctor."  She 
smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but  said  nothing ; 
and  prepared  to  come  down,  putting  her  plaid 
aside  and  rising.  Had  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory, 
been  handing  down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at  his 

*  It  is  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word;  it  was 
expressive  of  her  being  so  much  of  her  life  alone. 


24        RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

palace  gate,  lie  could  not  have  done  it  more 
daintily,  more  tenderh%  more  like  a  gentleman, 
than  did  James  the  Howgate  carrier,  when  he 
lifted  down  Ailie  his  wife.  The  contrast  of  his 
small,  swarthv,  weather-beaten,  keen,  worldly 
face  to  hers  —  pale,  subdued,  and  beautiful  — 
was  something  wonderful.  Rab  looked  on 
concerned  and  puzzled,  but  ready  for  anything 
that  might  turn  up,  —  were  it  to  strangle  the 
nurse,  the  porter,  or  even  me.  Ailie  and  he 
seemed  great  friends. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  she  's  got  a  kind  o'  trouble 
in  her  breest,  doctor;  wuU  ye  tak'  a  look  at 
it  ?  "  "VYe  walked  into  the  consulting-room, 
all  four ;  Rab  grim  and  comic,  willing  to  be 
happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  be  shown, 
wilhng  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the  same 
terms.  Ailie  sat  down,  nndid  her  open  gown 
and  her  lawn  handkerchief  round  her  neck,  and 
without  a  word  showed  me  her  right  breast.  I 
looked  at  and  examined  it  carefully,  — she  and 
James  watching  me,  and  R.ab  eying  all  three. 
What  could  I  say  ?  there  it  was,  that  had  once 
been  so  soft,  so  shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious 
and  bountiful,  so  "full  of  all  blessed  condi- 
tions," —  hard  as  a  stone,  a  centre  of  horrid 
pain,  makmg  that  pale  face,  with  its  gray, 


RAB    AND     HIS     FHIENDS.         25 

lucid,  reasonable  eyes,  and  its  sweet,  resolved 
mouth,  express  the  full  measure  of  suttering 
overcome.  "Why  was  thaf  geutle,  modest, 
sweet  womau,  clean  and  lovable,  condemned 
by  God  to  bear  such  a  burden  ? 
—I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "May  Rab  and  me 
bide  "r  "  said  James.  "  You  may ;  and  Rab,  if 
he  will  behave  himself."  "  I  'se  warrant  he  's 
do  that,  doctor " ;  and  in  slank  the  faithful 
beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him.  There 
are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  belonged  to  a  lost 
tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was  brindled  and 
gray  like  Rubislaw  granite  ;  his  hair  short, 
hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's ;  his  body  thick- 
set, like  a  little  bull, — a  sort  of  compressed 
Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must  have  been  nuiety 
pounds'  weight,  at  the  least;  he  had  a  large 
blunt  head ;  his  muzzle  black  as  night,  his 
mouth  blacker  than  any  night,  a  tooth  or  too 
—  being  all  he  had  —  gleaming  out  of  his  jaws 
of  darkness.  His  head  was  scarred  with  the 
records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort  of  series  of  fields 
of  battle  all  over  it;  one  eye  out,  one  ear 
cropped  as  close  as  was  Archbishop  Leighton's 
father's  ;  the  remaining  eye  had  the  power  of 
two ;  and  above  it,  and  in  constant  communica- 
tion with  it,  was  a  tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which 


'26        RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

was  forever  unfurling  itself,  like  an  old  flag ; 
and  then  that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch 
long,  if  it  could  in  any  sense  be  said  to  be  long, 
being  as  broad  as  long,  — the  mobility,  the  in- 
stantaneousness  of  that  bud  Avere  very  funny 
and  surprising,  and  its  expressive  tAviukliugs 
and  winkings,  the  intercommunications  between 
the  eye,  the  ear,  and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and 
swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great 
size  ;  and  having  fought  his  way  all  along  the 
road  to  absolute  supremacy,  he  Avas  as  mighty 
in  his  own  line  as  Julius  Caesar  or  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity  *  of  all 
great  fighters. 

You  must  have  often  observed  the  likeness 
of  certain  men  to  certain  animals,  and  of  cer- 
tain dogs  to  men.  Now,  I  never  looked  at 
Rab  without  thinking  of  the  great  Baptist 
preacher,  Andrew  Fuller.f      The  same  large, 

*  A  Iligliland  game-keeper,  when  asked  why  a  certaifi 
terrier,  of  singular  pluck,  was  so  much  more  solemn  than 
the  other  clogs,  said,  "  0,  sir,  life  's  full  o'  sairiousness  to 
him,  —  he  just  never  can  get  enuff  o'  feclitiu'." 

t  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  farmer  lad  at  Soham, 
famous  as  a  boxer;  not  quarrelsome,  but  not  without  "the 
stern  delight  "  a  man  of  strength  and  courage  feels  in  their 
exercise.  Dr.  Charles  Stewart,  of  Dunearn,  whose  rare  gifts 
and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentle- 


k' 


RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS.         27 

heavy,  menacing,  combative,  sombre,  honest 
countenance,  the  same  deep  inevitable  eye, 
the  same  look,  —  as  of  thunder  asleep,  but 
ready,  —  neither  a  dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with. 

Next  day,  my  master,  the  surgeon,  examined 
Ailie.  There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill  her, 
and  soon,  lit  could  be  removed  —  it  might 
never  return  ^^  it  would  give  her  speedy  relief 
—  she  should  have  it  done?' \' She  courtesied, 
looked  at  James,  and  said,  ^'^When  ?  "  "  To- 
morrow," said  the  kind  surgeon,  —  a  man  of 
few  words.  She  and  James  and  Rab  and  I 
retired.  I  noticed  that  he  and  she  spoke  little, 
but  seemed  to  anticipate  everything  in  each 
other.  The  following  day,  at  noon,  the  stu- 
dents came  in,  hurrying  up  the  great  stair. 
At  the  first  landing-place,  on  a  small,  well- 
known  blackboard,  was  a  bit  of  paper  fastened 
by  wafers,  and  many  remains  of  old  wafers 

man  live  only  in  the  memory  of  those  few  who  knew  and 
survive  him,  liked  to  tell  how  Mr.  Fuller  used  to  say,  that 
when  lie  was  in  tlie  pulpit,  and  saw  a  buirdly  man  come 
along  the  passage,  he  would  instinctively  draw  himself  up, 
measure  his  imaginary  antagonist,  and  forecast  how  he 
would  deal  with  him,  his  hands  meanwhile  condensing  into 
fists,  and  tending  to  "  square."  He  must  have  heen  a  hard 
liitter  if  he  boxed  as  he  preached,  —  what  "  The  Fancy  " 
ft'ould  call  "  an  ugly  customer." 


28         UAB    AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

beside  it.  On  the  paper  were  the  words,  — 
"  An  operation  to-day.     J.  B.  Clerk." 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good 
places  •.  in  they  crowded,  full  of  interest  and 
talk.  "  What 's  the  case  ?  "  "  Which  side  is 
it?" 

Don't  think  them  heartless  ;  they  are  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  you  or  I ;  they  get  over 
their  professional  horrors,  and  into  their  proper 
work,  —  and  in  them  pity,  as  an  emotion, 
ending  in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears  and  a  long- 
drawn  breath,  lessens,  while  pity  as  a  motioe 
is  quickened,  and  gains  power  and  purpose. 
It  is  well  for  poor  human  nature  that  it  is  so. 

The  operating  theatre  is  crowded ;  much 
talk  and  fun,  and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir  of 
youth.  Tlie  surgeon  with  his  staff  of  assistants 
is  there.  In  comes  Ailie  :  one  look  at  her 
quiets  and  abates  the  eager  students.  That 
beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for  them ; 
they  sit  down,  and  are  dumb,  and  gaze  at  her. 
These  rough  boys  feel  the  power  of  her  pres- 
ence. She  walks  in  quickly,  but  without  haste ; 
dressed  in  her  mutch,  her  neckerchief,  her 
white  dimity  short-gown,  her  black  bombazine 
petticoat,  showing  her  white  worsted  stockings 
and  her  carpet-shoes.     Behind  her  was  James 


UAB     AND     HIS    rE,IEX?)S.         29 

with  Rab.  James  sat  down  in  the  distance, 
and  took  that  huge  and  noble  head  between 
his  knees.  Rab  looked  perplexed  and  danger- 
ous ;  forever  cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it 
as  fast. 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  herself 
on  the  table,  as  her  friend  the  surgeon  told 
her;  arranged  herself,  gave  a  rapid  look  at 
James,  shut  her  eves,  rested  herself  on  me, 
and  took  my  hand.  The  operation  was  at  once 
begun ;  it  was  necessarily  slow ;  and  chloro- 
form —  one  of  God's  besl^gifts  to  his  suffering 
children  —  was  then  unknown.  The  surgeon 
did  his  work.  The  pale  face  showed  its  pain, 
but  was  still  and  silent.  Rab's  soul  was  work- 
ing within  him ;  he  saw  that  something  strange 
was  going  on,  — blood  flowing  from  his  mis- 
tress, and  she  sufFering;  his  ragged  ear  was 
up,  and  importunate;  he  growled,  and  gave 
now  and  tlien  a  sharp,  impatient  yelp  ;  he 
would  have  liked  to  have  done  something  to 
that  man.  But  James  had  him  iirm,  and  gave 
him  a  glower  from  time  to  time,  and  an  intima- 
tion of  a  possible  kick  ;  —  all  the  better  for 
James,  it  kept  his  eye  and  his  mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently  and 
decentlv  down  from  the  table,  looks  for  James ; 


30         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

then  turning  to  the  surgeon  and  the  students, 
she  courtesies, —and  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
begs  their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved  ill.  The 
students  —  all  of  us  —  wept  like  children  ;  the 
surgeon  happed  her  up  carefully,  —  and,  rest- 
ing on  James  and  me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room, 
Rab  following.  We  put  her  to  bed,  James 
took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  crammed  with  tack- 
ets,  heel-capt  and  toe-capt,  and  put  them  care- 
fully under  the  table,  saying,  "  Maister  John, 
I  'm  for  naue  o'  yer  strynge  nurse  bodies  for 
Ailie.  I  '11  be  her  mirse,  and  I  '11  gang  aboot 
on  my  stockin'  soles  as  canny  as  pussy."  And 
so  he  did  ;  and  handy  and  clever,  and  swift 
and  tender  as  any  woman,  was  that  horny- 
handed,  snell,  peremptory  little  man.  Every- 
thing she  got  he  gave  her  :  he  seldom  slept ; 
and  often  I  saw  his  small  shrewd  eyes  out 
of  the  darkness,  fixed  on  her.  As  before, 
they  spoke  little. 

llab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing 
us  how  meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  r.-nd  occa- 
sionally, in  his  sleep,  letting  us  know  that  he 
was  demolishing  some  adversary.  He  took  a 
walk  with  me  every  day,  generally  to  the  Can- 
dlemaker  Row ;  but  he  was  sombre  and  mild  ; 
declined  doing  battle,  though  some  fit   cases 


RAB     AND     HIS     FRIEXDS.         31 

oiFered,  and  indeed  submitted  to  sundry  indig- 
nities ;  and  was  always  very  ready  to  turn, 
and  came  faster  back,  and  trotted  up  the  stair 
with  much  hghtness,  and  went  straight  to  that 
door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her 
weather-worn  cart,  to  Howgate,  and  had  doubt- 
less her  own  dim  and  placid  meditations  and 
confusions,  on  the  absence  of  her  master  and 
Rab,  and  her  unnatural  freedom  from  the  road 
and  her  cart. 

Tor  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The  wound 
healed  "by  the  first  intention"  ;  fori^s  James 
said,  "  Oor  Ailie's  skin 's  ower  clean  to  beil.'* 
The  students  came  in  quiet  and  anxious,  and 
surrounded  her  bed.  She  said  she  liked  to  see 
their  young,  honest  faces.  Tlte-^tiTgeon  dressed 
her,  and  spoke  to  her  in  his  own  short,  kind 
way,  pitying  her  through  his  eyes,  Rab  and 
, James  outside  the  circle,  —  Rab  being  now 
reconciled,  and  even  cordial,  and  having  made 
up  his  mind  that  as  yet  nobody  required  worry- 
ing, but,  as  you  may  suppose,  semper  paratus. 

So  far  well :  but,  four  days  after  the  opera- 
tion, my  patient  had  a  sudden  and  loiig  shiver- 
ing, a  "groosinV  as  she  called  it.  fl  saw  her 
soon  after ;  her  eyes  were  too  bright,  her  cheek 


32         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

colored ;  she  was  restless,  and  ashamed  of  being 
so ;  the  balance  was  lost ;  mischief  had  begun. 
On  looking  at  the  wound,  a  blush  of  red  told 
the  secret :  her  pulse  was  rapid,  her  breathing 
aiixious  and  quick,  she  was  n't  herself,  as  she 
said,  and  was  vexed  at  her  restlessness.  We 
tried  what  we  could.  James  did  everything, 
was  everywhere ;  never  in  the  way,  never  out 
of  it ;  Rab  subsided  under  the  table  into  a 
dark  place,  and  was  motionless,  all  but  his  eye, 
which  followed  every  one.  Ailie  got  worse  ; 
began  to  wander  in  her  mind,  gently  ;  was  more 
demonstrative  in  her  ways  to  James,  rapid  in 
her  questions,  and  sharp  at  times.  He  was 
vexed,  and  said,  "She  was  never  that  way 
afore ;  no,  never."  For  a  time  she  knew  her 
head  was  wrong,  and  was  always  asking  our 
pardon,  —  the  dear,  gentle  old  woman:  then 
deliri-um  set  in  strong,  without  pause.  Her 
brain  gave  way,  and  then  came  that  terrible 
spectacle,  — 

"  The  intellectual  power,  througli  words  and  things. 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  aiul  perilous  way  "  ; 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stop- 
ping suddenly,  mingling  the  Psalms  of  David 
and  the  diviner  words  of  his  Son  and  Lord 


RAB     AXD     HIS     FEIENDS.         33 

with  homely  odds  and  ends  and  scraps  of  bal- 
lads. 

Xotbing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more 
strangely  beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her 
tremulous,  rapid,  affectionate,  eager  Scotch 
voice,  —  the  swift,  aimless,  bewildered  mind, 
the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and  perilous 
eye  ;  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares, 
something  for  James,  the  names  of  the  dead, 
Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a  "  fremyt "  voice, 
and  he  starting  up  surprised,  and  shnking  off 
as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had  been 
dreaming  he  heard ;  many  eager  questions  and 
beseechings  which  James  and  I  could  make 
nothing  of,  and  on  which  she  seemed  to  set  her 
all,  and  then  sink  back  ununderstood.  It  was 
very  sad,  but  better  than  many  things  that  are 
not  called  sad.  James  hovered  about,  put  out 
and  miserable,  but  active  and  exact  as  ever; 
read  to  her,  when  there  was  a  lull,  short  bits 
from  the  Psalms,  prose  and  metre,  chanting 
the  latter  in  his  own  rude  and  serious  way, 
showing  great  knowledge  of  the  fit  words, 
bearing  up  like  a  man,  and  doating  over  her 
as  his  "ain  Ailie."  "Ailie,  ma  woman!" 
"  Ma  ain  bonnie  wee  dawtie  !  " 
/.'  The  end  was  drawing  on  :  the  golden  bowl 


34        RAB     AND     HIS     I'RIENDS. 

was  breaking ;  the  silver  cord  was  fast  being 
loosed,  —  that  cinimula  blandula,  vagida,  hos- 
pes,  comesqne,  was  about  to  flee.  The  body 
and  the  soul  — ■  companions  for  sixty  years  — 
were  being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She 
was  walknig  alone  tii rough  the  valley  of  that 
shadow  into  which  one  day  we  must  all  enter. 

—  and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for  Ave  know 
whose  rod  and  stafl"  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and,  as  we 
hoped,  asleep ;  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put 
down  the  gas,  and  sat  watching  her.  Suddenly 
she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  taking  a  bedgown  which 
was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she  held  it  eagerly  to 
her  breast,  —  to  the  right  side.  We  could  see 
her  eyes  bright  with  a  surprising  tenderness 
and  jo^y,  bending  over  this  bundle  of  clothes. 
She  held  it  as  a  woman  holds  her  sucking 
child ;  opening  out  her  nightgown  impatiently, 
and  holding  it  close,  and  brooding  over  it,  and 
murmuring  foolisli  little  words,  as  over  one 
whom  his  mother  comforteth,  and  who  sucks 
and  is  satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange  to 
see  her  wasted  dying  look,  keen  and  yet  vague, 

—  her  immense  love. 

"  Preserve  me  !  "  groaned  James,  giving 
way.     And  then  she  rocked  back  and  forward, 


/ 


EAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS.        35 

as  if  to  make  it  sleep,  Imshing  it,  and  wasting 
on  it  her  infinite  fondness.  "  Wae  's  me,  doc- 
tor ;  I  declare  she  's  thinkin'  it 's  that  baim." 
"What  bairn?"  "The  only  bairn  we  ever 
had ;  our  wee  Mysie,  and  she 's  in  the  King- 
dom, forty  years  and  mair."  It  was  plainly 
true  :  the  pain  in  the  breast,  telling  its  urgent 
story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain,  was  mis- 
read and  mistaken;  it  suggested  to  her  the 
uneasiness  of  a  breast  full  of  milk,  and  then 
the  child ;  and  so  again  ouce  more  they  were 
together,  and  she  had  her  am  wee  Mysie  in  her 
bosom. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rapidly  :  the 
delirium  left  her ;  but,  as  she  whispered,  she 
was  "  clean  silly "  ;  it  was  the  lightening 
before  the  final  darkness.  After  having  for 
some  time  lain  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"  James  I  "  He  came  close  to  her,  and  lifting 
up  her  calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave 
him  a  long  look,  turned  to  me  kindly  but 
shortly,  looked  for  Rab  but  could  not  see  him, 
then  turned  to  her  husband  agam,  as  if  she 
would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut  her  eyes, 
and  composed  herself.  She  lay  for  some  time 
breathing  quick,  and  passed  away  so  gently, 
that  when  we  thought  she  was  gone,  James,  in 


36        RAB    AND     HIS    TEIENDS. 

his  old-fashioned  way,  lield  tlie  mirror  to  her 
face.  After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot  of 
dimness  was  breathed  out ;  it  vanished  away, 
and  never  returned,  leaving  the  blank  clear 
darkness  of  the  mirror  without  a  stain.  "  What 
is  our  life  ?  it  is  even  a  vapor,  which  appeareth 
for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and 
motionless  ;  he  came  forward  beside  us  :  Ailie's 
hand,  which  James  had  held,  was  hanging 
down ;  it  was  soaked  with  his  tears ;  Rab 
licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her,  and 
returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long, 
but  for  some  time, — saying  nothing:  he 
started  up  abruptly,  and  witli  some  noise  went 
to  the  table,  and  putting  his  right  fore  and 
middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them 
out,  and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the 
leather  latchets,  and  muttering  in  anger,  "I 
never  did  the  like  o'  that  afore  !  " 

I  believe  he  never  did  ;  nor  after  either. 
"Rab!"  he  said  roughly,  and  pointing  with 
his  thumb  to  the  bottom  of  tlie  bed.  Rab 
leapt  up,  and  settled  himself;  his  head  and 
eye  to  the  dead  face.  "  Maister  John,  ye  '11 
wait  for  me,"  said  the  carrier  ;  and  disappeared 


I 


RAB     AND     HIS     FEIEXDS.         37 

ill  the  darkness,  tliimdering  down  stairs  in  his 
heavy  shoes.  I  ran  to  a  front  window ;  there 
he  was,  already  round  the  liouse,  and  out  at 
the  gate,  fleeing  like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid ; 
so  I  sat  down  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied, 
fell  asleep.  I  awoke  from  a  sudden  noise  out- 
side. It  was  November,  and  there  had  been 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  Rab  was  in  statu  quo  ; 
he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it, 
but  never  moved.  I  looked  out ;  and  there, 
at  the  gate,  in  the  dim  morning  —  for  the  sun 
was  not  up  —  was  Jess  and  the  cart,  —  a  cloud 
of  steam  rising  from  the  old  mare.  I  did  not 
see  James ;  he  was  already  at  the  door,  and 
came  up  the  stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was 
less  than  three  hours  since  he  left,  and  he 
must  have  posted  out  —  who  knows  how?  — 
to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off,  yoked  Jess, 
and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He  had 
an  armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming  with 
perspiration.  He  nodded  to  me,  spread  out 
on  the  floor  two  pairs  of  clean  old  blankets 
having  at  their  corners,  "A.  G.,  1794,"  in 
large  letters  in  red  worsted.  These  were  the 
initials  of  Alison  Grseme,  and  James  may  have 
looked  in  at  her  from  without,  —  himself  un- 


38        RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

seen  but  not  untliouglit  of,  —  when  lie  was 
"  wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and  after  liaving 
walked  many  a  mile  over  the  hills,  may  have 
seen  her  sitting,  while  "  a'  the  lave  were  sleep- 
in'  "  ;  and  by  the  firelight  working  her  name 
on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain  James's  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his  wife 
in  his  arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and  happed 
her  carefully  and  firmly  up,  leaving  the  face 
uncovered;  and  then  lifting  her,  he  nodded 
again  sharply  to  me,  and  with  a  resolved  but 
utterly  miserable' face  strode  along  the  passage, 
and  down  stairs,  followed  by  Rab.  I  followed 
with  a  light ;  but  he  did  n't  need  it.  I  went  out, 
holding  stupidly  the  candle  in  my  hand  in  the 
calm  frosty  air ;  we  were  soon  at  the  gate.  I 
could  have  helped  him,  but  I  sav,^  he  was  not 
to  be  meddled  with,  and  he  was  strong,  and 
did  not  need  it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly, 
as  safely,  as  he  had  lifted  her  out  ten  days 
before,  —  as  tenderly  as  when  he  had  lier  first 
in  his  arms  when  she  was  only"A.  G.,"  — 
sorted  her,  leaving  that  beautiful  sealed  face 
open  to  the  heavens ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the 
head,  he  moved  away.  He  did  not  notice  me, 
neither  did  Rab,  who  presided  behind  the  cart. 
I   stood    till   they  passed   through   the    long 


STATE  NORMAL 

Lo8  Arigeies 

HAB    AND     HIS     FRIEXDS.        41 

shadow  of  the  College,  and  turned  up  i\  icolson 
Street.  I  heard  the  solitary  cart  sound  through 
the  streets,  and  die  away  and  come  again  ;  and 
I  returned,  thinking  of  that  company  going  up 
Libberton  Brae,  then  along  Roslin  Muir,  the 
morning  light  touching  the  Pentlauds  and 
making  them  like  on-looking  ghosts ;  then 
down  the  hill  through  Auchiudinny  woods,  past 
"  haunted  Woodhouselee  "  ;  and  as  daybreak 
came  sweeping  up  the  bleak  Lammermuirs,. 
and  fell  on  his  own  door,  the  company  would 
stop,  and  James  would  take  the  key,  and  lift 
Ailie  up  again,  laying  her  on  her  own  bed,  and, 
having  put  Jess  up,  would  return  with  Rab 
and  shut  the  door. 

James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neighbors 
mourning,  Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from  a 
distance.  It  was  snow,  and  that  black  ragged 
hole  would  look  strange  in  the  midst  of  the 
swelling  spotless  cushion  of  white.  James 
looked  after  everj^thing  ;  then  rather  suddenly 
fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insensible  when 
the  doctor  came,  and  soon  died.  A  sort  of 
low  fever  was  prevailing  in  the  village,  and 
his  want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion,  and  his  misery 
made  him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not 
difficult  to  reopen.     A  fresh  fall  of  snow  ha<^ 


4:Z         RAB     AND     HIS     FRIENDS. 

again  made  all  things  white  and  smooth ;  Eab 
once  more  looked  on,  and  slunk  home  to  the 
stable. 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him  next 
week  at  the  new  carrier  who  got  the  good- 
will of  James's  business,  and  was  now  master  of 
Jess  and  her  cart.  "  How 's  llab  ?  "  He  put 
me  off,  and  said  rather  rudely,  "  What 's  your 
business  Avi'  the  dowg?"  I  was  not  to  be  so 
put  off.  "  Wliere  's  Rab  ?  "  He,  getting  con- 
fused and  red,  and  intermeddling  with  his  hair, 
said,  "  'Deed,  sir,  Rab 's  deid."  "  Dead  !  what 
did  he  die  of?  "  "  Weel,  sir,"  said  he,  getting 
redder,  "  he  didna  exactly  dee ;  he  was  killed. 
I  had  to  brain  him  wi'  a  rack-pin ;  there  was 
nae  doin'  wi'  him.  He  lay  in  the  treviss  wi' 
the  mear,  and  wadna  come  oot.  I  tempit  him 
wi'  kail  and  meat,  but  he  wad  tak  naething,  and 
keepit  me  frae  feedin'  the  beast,  and  he  was 
aye  gur  gurrin',  and  grup  gruppin'  me  by  the 
legs.  I  was  laith  to  make  awa  wi'  the  auld 
dowg,  his  like  wasna  atween  this  and  Thornhill, 
—  but,  'deed,  sir,  I  could  do  naething  else." 
I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick  and 
complete.  His  teeth  and  his  friends  gone,  why 
should  he  keep  the  peace,  and  be  civil  ? 


MARJORIE    FLEMING. 


TO 

MISS    FLEMING, 

TO   WHOM    I   Ail    IXDFIBTKD    TOR   ALL   ITS    MATERIALS, 

Cfjis  fHcmorial 

OF    HER    DEAR    AND     UXFORGOTTEN 

"MAIDIE 

IS   GRATEFULLY  IXSCRIBED. 


-^^Sr 


MARJORIE   FLEMING. 


NE  jNTovember  afternoon  in  1810  —  the 
year  in  which  Waverleij  was  resumed 
and  laid  aside  again,  to  be  finished  off, 
its  last  two  volumes  in  three  weeks,  and  made 
immortal  in  1814,  and  when  its  author,  by  the 
death  of  Lord  Melville,  narrowly  escaped  get- 
ting a  civil  appointment  in  India  —  three  men, 
evidently  lawyers,  might  have  been  seen  es- 
caping like  school-boys  from  the  Parliament 
House,  and  speeding  arm-in-arm  down  Bank 
Street  and  the  Mound,  in  the  teeth  of  a  surly 
blast  of  sleet. 

The  three  friends  sought  the  hield  of  the  low 
wall  old  Edinburgh  boys  remember  well,  and 
sometimes  miss  now,  as  they  struggle  with  the 
stout  west -wind. 

The  three  were  curiously  unlike  each  other. 
One,  "  a  little  man  of  feeble  make,  who  would 


48  MATtJOUIE     FLEMIXG. 

be  imliappy  if  his  pony  got  beyond  a  foot  pace," 
slight,  with  "  small,  elegant  features,  hectic 
cheek,  and  soft  hazel  eyes,  the  index  of  the 
quick,  sensitive  spirit  within,  as  if  he  had  the 
warm  heart  of  a  woman,  her  genuine  enthusi- 
asm, and  some  of  her  weaknesses."  Another, 
as  unlike  a  woman  as  a  man  can  be ;  homely, 
almost  common,  in  look  and  figure ;  his  hat 
and  his  coat,  and  indeed  his  entire  covering, 
worn  to  the  quick,  but  all  of  the  best  material ; 
what  redeemed  him  from  vulgarity  and  mean- 
ness were  his  eyes,  deep  set,  heavily  thatched, 
keen,  hungry,  shrewd,  with  a  slumbering  glow 
far  in,  as  if  they  could  be  dangerous  ;  a  man 
to  care  nothing  for  at  first  glance,  but  some- 
how to  give  a  second  and  not-fargetting  look 
at.  The  third  was  the  biggest  of  the  three, 
and  though  lame,  nimble,  and  all  rough  and 
alive  with  power,  had  you  met  him  anywhere 
else,  you  would  say  he  was  a  Liddesdale  store- 
farmer,  come  of  gentle  blood  ;  "  a  stout,  blunt 
carle,"  as  he  says  of  himself,  with  the  swing 
and  stride  and  the  eye  of  a  man  of  the  hills,  — 
a  large,  sunny,  out-of-door  air  all  about  him. 
On  his  broad  and  somewhat  stooping  shoulders 
was  set  that  head  which,  with  Shakespeare's 
and  Bonaparte's,  is  the  best  known  in  all  the 
world. 


JIAEJOEIE     FLEMIXG.  49 

He  was  in  high  spirits,  keeping  his  compan- 
ions and  himself  in  roars  of  laughter,  and 
every  now  and  then  seizing  them,  and  stopping, 
that  they  might  take  their  fill  of  the  fim  ;  there 
they  stood  shaking  with  laughter,  "not  an 
inch  of  their  body  free"  from  its  grip.  At 
George  Street  they  parted,  one  to  Rose  Court, 
behind  St.  Andrew's  Church,  one  to  Albany 
Street,  the  other,  our  big  and  limping  friend, 
to  Castle  Street. 

^Ye  need  hardly  give  their  names.  The  first 
was  William  Erskine,  afterwards  Lord  Kinned- 
der,  chased  out  of  the  world  by  a  calumny, 
killed  by  its  foul  breath,  — 

"  And  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  -without  a  strife, 
Slipped  in  a  moment  out  of  life." 

There  is  nothing  in  literature  more  beautiful 
or  more  pathetic  than  Scott's  love  and  sorrow 
for  this  friend  of  his  youth. 

The  second  was  William  Clerk,  —  the  Darsie 
Latimer  of  Redr/auntlet ;  "a  man,"  as  Scott 
says,  "  of  the  most  acute  intellects  and  power- 
ful apprehension,"  but  of  more  powerful  indo- 
lence, so  as  to  leave  the  world  with  little  more 
than  the  report  of  what  he  might  have  been,  — 
a   humorist  as  genuine,  though  not  quite  so 


50  MARJOEIE     FLEMING. 

savagely  Swiftian  as  his  brother,  Lord  Eldin, 
neither  of  whom  had  much  of  that  commonest 
and  best  of  all  the  humors,  called  good. 

The  third  we  all  know.  Wliat  has  he  not 
done  for  every  one  of  us?  Wlio  else  ever, 
except  Shakespeare,  so  diverted  mankind,  en- 
tertained and  entertains  a  world  so  liberally, 
so  wholesomely  ?  We  are  fain  to  say,  not 
even  Shakespeare,  for  his  is  something  deeper 
than  diversion,  something  higher  than  ipleasure, 
and  yet  who  would  care  to  split  this  hair  ? 

Had  any  one  watched  him  closely  before  and 
after  the  parting,  wliat  a  change  he  would  see ! 
The  bright,  broad  laugh,  the  shrewd,  jovial 
word,  the  man  of  the  Parliament  House  and  of 
the  world  ;  and  next  step,  moody,  the  light  of 
his  eye  withdrawn,  as  if  seeing  things  that  were 
invisible  ;  his  shut  mouth,  like  a  child's,  so  im- 
pressionable, so  innocent,  so  sad ;  he  was  now 
all  within,  as  before  he  was  all  without ;  hence 
his  brooding  look.  As  the  snow  blattered  in 
his  face,  he  muttered,  "  How  it  raves  and  drifts  ! 
On-ding  o'  snaw,  —  ay,  that 's  the  word,  —  ou- 
ding  — "  He  was  now  at  his  own  door, 
"  Castle  Street,  No.  39."  He  opened  the  door, 
and  went  straight  to  his  den ;  that  wondrous 
workshop,  where,  in  one  year,  IS 23,  when  he 


MAEJORIE    FLEMING.  51 

was  fifty-t"wo,  he  wrote  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
Quenti/i  Duncard,  and  St.  Ronan's  Well,  be- 
sides much  else.  We  once  took  the  foremost 
of  our  noveUsts,  the  greatest,  we  would  say, 
shice  Scott,  into  this  room,  and  could  not  but 
mark  the  solemnizing  effect  of  sitting  where 
the  great  magician  sat  so  often  and  so  long, 
and  looking  out  upon  that  little  shabby  bit  of 
sky  and  that  back  green,  where  faithful  Camp 
lies.* 

He  sat  down  in  his  large  green  morocco 
elbow-chair,  drew  himself  close  to  his  table,  and 
glowered  and  gloomed  at  his  writing  apparatus, 
"a  very  handsome  old  box,  richly  carved, 
lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and  containing  ink- 
bottles,  taper-stand,  etc.,  in  silver,  the  whole 
in  such  order  that  it  might  have  come  from 
the  silversmith's  window  half  an  hour  before." 
He  took  out  his  paper,  then  starting  up  angrily, 
said,  "  '  Go  spin,  you  jade,  go  spin.'  No,  d — 
it,  it  won't  do,  — 

*  This  favorite  dog:  "  died  about  Januaiy,  1809,  and  was 
buried  in  a  fine  moonlight  nijrht  in  the  little  garden  behind 
the  liouse  in  Castle  Street.  My  vLfe  tells  nie  she  remem- 
bers the  whole  family  in  tears  about  the  grave  as  her  father 
himself  smoothed  the  turf  above  Camp,  with  the  saddest 
face  she  had  ever  seen.  He  had  been  engaged  to  dine 
abroad  that  day,  but  apologized,  on  account  of  the  death  of 
'  a  dear  old  friend.'  "  —  Lockhakt's  Ufe  of  Scott. 


52  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

' My  spinnin'  -nheel  is  auld  and  stiff, 

The  rock  o't  wunna  stand,  sir, 
To  keep  tlie  temper-pin  in  tiff 
Employs  ower  aft  nly  liand,  sir.' 

I  am  off  the  fang.*  I  can  make  iiotliing  of 
Waverley  to-day  ;  I  '11  awa'  to  Marjorie.  Come 
wi'  me,  Maida,  you  thief."  The  great  crea- 
ture rose  slowly,  and  the  pair  were  off,  Scott 
taking  a  maud  (a  plaid)  "with  him.  "  White 
as  a  frosted  plum-cake,  by  jingo!  "  said  he, 
when  he  got  to  the  street.  Maida  gambolled 
and  whisked  among  the  snow,  and  his  master 
strode  across  to  Young  Street,  and  through  it  to 
1  North  Charlotte  Street,  to  the  house  of  his 
dear  friend,  Mrs.  "William  Keith,  of  Corstor- 
phine  Hill,  niece  of  Mrs.  Keith,  of  Ravelston, 
of  whom  he  said  at  her  death,  eight  years  after, 
"Much  tradition,  and  that  of  the  best,  has 
died  with  this  excellent  old  lady,  one  of  the^ 
few  persons  whose  spirits  and  cleanliness  and 
freshness  of  mind  and  body  made  old  age 
lovely  and  desirable." 

Sir  Walter  was  in  that  house  almost  every 
day,  and  had  a  key,  so  in  he  and  the  hound 
went,  shaking  themselves  in  the  lobby.    "  Mar- 

*  Applied  to  a  pump  when  it  is  dry,  and  its  valve  has  lost 
its  "  fang  "  ;  from  the  German /aw^/CH,  to  hold. 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  o.j 

jorie  !  Marjorie  !  "  shouted  her  fiientl,  "  where 
are  ye,  my  boiinie  wee  croodUn  doo  ?  "  lu  a 
moment  a  bright,  eager  child  of  seven  was  in 
his  arms,  and  lie  was  kissing  her  all  over. 
Out  came  Mrs.  Keith.  "  Come  yer  ways  in, 
Wat  tie."  "  No,  not  now.  I  am  going  to  take 
Marjorie  wi'  me,  and  you  may  come  to  your 
tea  in  Duncan  Roy's  sedan,  and  bring  the  bairn 
home  in  your  lap."  "  Tak'  Marjorie,  and  it 
on-ding  d  snaic I''  said  Mrs.  Keith.  He  said 
to  himself,  "  On-ding,  —  that  's  odd,  —  that  is 
the  very  word."  "  Hoot,  awa !  look  here," 
and  he  displayed  the  corner  of  his  plaid,  made 
to  hold  lambs  (the  true  shepherd's  plaid,  con- 
sisting of  two  breadths  sewed  together,  and 
uncut  at  one  end,  making  a  poke  or  cid  de  sac). 
"Tak'  yer  lamb,"  said  she,  laughing  at  the 
contrivance ;  and  so  the  Pet  was  first  well  hap- 
pit  up,  and  then  put,  laughing  silently,  into  the 
plaid  neuk,  and  the  shepherd  strode  off  with 
his  lamb,  —  Maida  gambolling  through  the 
snow,  and  running  races  in  her  mirth. 

Did  n't  he  face  "  the  angry  airt,"  and  make 
her  bield  his  bosom,  and  into  his  own  room 
with  her,  and  lock  the  door,  and  out  w4th  the 
warm,  rosy  little  wifie,  who  took  it  all  with 
great  composure !       There  the  two  remained 


56  MARJOEIE     FLEMING. 

for  three  or  more  hours,  making  the  house  ring 
with  their  laughter ;  you  can  fancy  the  big 
man's  and  Maidie's  laugh.  Having  made  the 
fire  cheery,  he  set  her  down  in  his  ample  chair, 
and  standing  sheepishly  before  her,  began  to 
say  his  lesson,  which  happened  to  be,  • —  "  Zic- 
cott}^,  diccotty,  dock,  the  mouse  ran  up  the 
clock,  the  clock  struck  wan,  down  the  mouse 
ran,  ziccotty,  diccotty,  dock."  This  done  re- 
peatedly till  she  was  pleased,  she  gave  him  his 
new  lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing  it  upon 
her  small  fingers,  —  he  saying  it  after  her,  — 

"  Wonery,  twoery,  tickery,  seven ; 
Alibi,  crackaby,  ten,  and  eleven  ; 
Pin,  pan,  musky,  dan ; 
Tweedle-um,  twoddle-um, 
Twenty-Man  ;  eerie,  orie,  ourie. 
You,  are,  out." 

He  pretended  to  great  diificidty,  and  she  re- 
buked him  with  most  comical  gravity,  treating 
him  as  a  child.  He  used  to  say  that  when  he 
came  to  Alibi  Crackaby  he  broke  down,  and 
Pin-Pan,  Musky -Dan,  Tweedle-um  Twoddle-um 
made  him  roar  with  laughter.  He  said  Mu.skj/- 
Dan  especially  was  beyond  endurance,  bringing 
up  an  Irishman  and  his  hat  fresh  from  the  Spice 
Islands  and  odoriferous  Ind  ;  she  getting  quite 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  57 

bitter  in  lier  displeasure  at  liis  ili-beliavior  and 
stupidness. 

Then  be  would  read  ballads  to  lier  in  bis 
own  glorious  way,  tbe  two  getting  wild  witb 
excitement  over  Gil  Morrice  or  tbe  Baroti  of 
Sinailholm ;  and  be  would  take  ber  on  bis 
knee,  and  make  ber  repeat  Constance's  speecbes 
in  Kiiuj  John,  till  be  swayed  to  and  fro,  sob- 
bing bis  fill.  Fancy  the  gifted  little  creature, 
like  one  possessed,  repeating,  — 

"  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fears  ; 
A  widow,  hushandless,  suljject  to  fears  ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears." 

"If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  grim. 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious  —  " 

Or,  drawing  berself  up  "  to  tbe  beigbt  of  ber 
great  argument,"  — 

"  I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud. 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
Here  1  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  tbat  be  was  amazed  at  ber 
power  over  bim,  saying  to  Mrs.  Keitb,  "  Sbe  's 
tbe  most  extraordinary  creature  I  ever  met 
mtb,  and  ber  repeating  of  Sbakespeare  over- 
powers me  as  notbing  else  does." 


58  MAllJORIE     FLEMING. 

Tlianks  to  tlie  miforgetting  sister  of  tliis  dear 
child,  who  has  much  of  the  sensibilitv  and  fun 
of  her  who  has  been  in  lier  small  grave  these 
fifty  and  more  years,  we  liave  now  before  us 
the  letters  and  journals  of  Pet  Marjorie,  —  be- 
fore us  lies  and  gleams  her  rich  brown  hair, 
bright  and  sunny  as  if  yesterday's,  with  tlie 
words  on  the  paper,  "  Cut  out  in  her  last  ill- 
ness," and  two  pictures  of  her  by  her  beloved 
Isabella,  whom  she  worshipped ;  there  are  the 
faded  old  scraps  of  paper,  hoarded  still,  over 
which  her  warm  breath  and  her  warm  little 
heart  had  poured  themselves ;  there  is  the  old 
water-mark,  "Lingard,  ISOS."  The  two  por- 
traits are  very  like  each  other,  but  plainly  done 
at  different  times  ;  it  is  a  chubby,  healthy  face, 
deep-set,  brooding  eyes,  as  eager  to  tell  what  is 
going  on  within  as  to  gather  in  all  the  glories 
from  without ;  quick  with  the  wonder  and  the 
pride  of  life  ;  they  are  eyes  that  would  not  be 
soon  satisfied  with  seeing  ;  e^^es  that  would  de- 
vour their  object,  and  yet  childlike  and  fear- 
less ;  and  that  is  a  mouth  that  will  not  be  soon 
satisfied  with  love ;  it  has  a  curious  hkeness  to 
Scott's  own,  which  has  always  appeared  to  us 
his  sweetest,  most  mobile  and  speaking  feat- 
ure. 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  59 

There  she  is,  looking  straight  at  us  as  she 
did  at  him,  —  fearless  and  full  of  love,  passion- 
ate, Tvild,  wilful,  fancy's  child.  One  cannot 
look  at  it  without  thinking  of  Wordsworth's 
Lines  on  poor  Hartley  Coleridge  :  — 

"  0  blessed  vision,  happy  child ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 
I  thought  of  thee  with  many  fears. 
Of  what  might  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  he  thy  guest. 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ; 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  !  ne'er  at  rest. 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
0,  too  industrious  folly  ! 
0,  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite. 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 
Preser\  e  for  thee  by  individual  right 
A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flock." 

^Ind  we  can  imagine  Scott,  when  holding  his 
warm,  plump  little  playfellow  in  his  arms,  re- 
peating that  stately  friend's  lines  :  — 

"  Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild. 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her. 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes. 
And  feats  of  cunning  ;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock  chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 
And,  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth. 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone, 
Than  wlien  both  voung  and  old  sit  gathered  round. 


60  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

And  take  delight  in  its  activity, 
Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society;  she  tills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs  " 

But  we  will  let  lier  disclose  herself.  Wft 
need  hardly  say  that  all  this  is  true,  and  that 
these  letters  are  as  really  Marjorie's  as  was 
this  light  brown  hair ;  indeed,  you  could  as 
easily  fabricate  the  one  as  the  other. 

There  was  an  old  servant,  Jeanie  Robertson, 
who  was  forty  years  in  her  grandfather's  fam- 
ily. Marjorie  Fleming,  or,  as  slie  is  called  in 
the  letters,  and  by  Sir  Walter,  Maidie,  Avas  the 
last  child  she  kept.  Jeanie's  wages  never  ex- 
ceeded £  3  a  year,  and,  when  she  left  ser- 
vice, slie  had  saved  £  40.  She  was  devotedly 
attached  to  Maidie,  rather  despising  and  ill- 
using  her  sister  Isabella, — a  beautiful  and 
gentle  child.  This  partiality  made  Maidie  apt 
at  times  to  domineer  over  Isabella.  "  I  men- 
tion this  "  (writes  her  surviving  sister)  "  for 
the  purpose  of  telling  you  an  instance  of  Mai- 
die's  generous  justice.  When  only  five  years 
old,  when  walking  in  Raith  grounds,  the  two 
children  had  nni  on  before,  and  old  Jeanie  re- 
membered they  might  come  too  near  a  danger- 
ous mill-lade.    She  called  to  them  to  turn  back. 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  61 

Maidie  heeded  her  not,  rushed  all  the  faster 
on,  and  fell,  and  would  have  been  lost,  had  lier 
sister  not  pulled  her  back,  savmg  her  life,  but 
tearing  her  clothes.  Jeanie  flew  on  Isabella  to 
'  give  it  her  '  for  spoiling  lier  favorite's  dress  ; 
Maidie  rushed  in  between,  crying  out,  '  Pay 
(whip)  Maidjie  as  much  as  you  like,  and  I  '11 
not  say  one  word ;  but  touch  Isy,  and  I  '11  roar 
like  a  bull ! '  Years  after  Maidie  was  resting 
in  her  grave,  my  mother  used  to  take  me  to 
the  place,  and  told  the  story  always  in  the  ex- 
act same  words."  This  Jeanie  must  have  been 
a  character.  She  took  great  pride  in  exhibit- 
ing Maidie's  brother  William's  Calvinistic  ac- 
quirements, when  nineteen  months  old,  to  the 
officers  of  a  militia  regiment  then  quartered  in 
Kirkcaldy.  This  performance  was  so  amusing 
that  it  was  often  repeated,  and  the  little  theo- 
logian was  presented  by  them  with  a  cap  and 
feathers.  Jeanie's  glory  was  "putting  him 
through  the  carritcli "  (catechism)  in  broad 
Scotcli,  beginning  at  the  beginning  witli^,  "  Wha 
made  ye,  ma  bonnie  man  ?  "  For  the  correct- 
ness of  this  and  the  three  next  replies  Jeanie 
had  no  anxiety,  but  the  tone  changed  to  men- 
ace, and  the  closed  nieve  (fist)  was  shaken  in 
the  child's  face  as  she  demanded,  "  Of  what 


62  MARJOEIE     FLEMING. 

are  you  made  ?  "  "  Dirt,"  was  the  answer 
uniformly  given.  "Wull  ye  never  learn  to  say 
dust,  ye  tlirawn  deevil  ?  "  with  a  cuff  from  the 
opened  hand,  was  the  as  inevitable  rejoinder. 

Here  is  Maidie's  first  letter  before  she  was 
six.  The  spelling  unaltered,  and  there  are  no 
"  commoes." 

"My  dear  Isa, — I  now  sit  down  to  an- 
swer all  your  kind  and  beloved  letters  which 
you  was  so  good  as  to  write  to  me.  This  iS 
the  first  time  I  ever  wrote  a  letter  in  my  Life. 
There  are  a  great  many  Girls  m  the  Square  and 
they  cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we  are  under  the 
painfull  necessity  of  putting  it  to  Death.  Miss 
Potune  a  Lady  of  my  acquaintance  praises  me 
dreadfully.  I  repeated  something  out  of  Dean. 
Swift,  and  she  said  I  was  fit  %x  the  stage,  and 
you  may  think  I  was  primmed  up  with  majes- 
tick  Pride,  but  upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe 
turn  a  little  birsay  —  birsay  is  a  word  which  is 
a  word  that  William  composed  which  is  as  you 
may  suppose  a  little  enraged.  This  horrid  fat 
simpliton  says  that  my  Aunt  is  beautifull  which 
is  intirely  impossible  for  that  is  not  her  nature." 

What  a  peppery  little  pen  we  wield  !  What 
could  that  have  been  out  of  the  Sardonic  Dean  ? 
what  other  child  of  that  age  would  have  used 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  63 

"  beloved  "  as  she  does  ?  This  power  of  affec- 
tion, this  faculty  of  i^i^ioving-,  and  wild  hunger 
to  be  beloved,  comes  out  more  and  more.  Slie 
perilled  her  all  upon  it,  and  it  may  have  been 
as  well  —  we  know,  indeed,  that  it  was  far 
better  —  for  her  that  this  wealth  of  love  was 
so  soon  withdrawn  to  its  one  only  infinite  Giver 
and  Receiver.  This  must  have  been  the  law 
of  her  earthly  life.  Love  was  indeed  "her 
Lord  and  King  "  ;  and  it  was  perhaps  well  for 
her  that  she  found  so  soon  that  her  and  our  only 
Lord  and  King  himself  is  Love. 

Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Braehead : 
"  The  day  of  my  existence  here  has  been 
delightful  and  enchanting.  On  Saturday  I 
.expected  no  less  than  three  well  made  Bucks 
the  names  of  whom  is  here  advertised.  Mr. 
Geo.  Crakey  (Craigie),  and  Wm.  Keith  and  Jn. 
Keith  —  the  first  is  the  fumiiest  of  every  one  of 
them.  Mr.  Crakey  and  walked  to  Crakyhall 
(Craigiehall)  hand  in  hand  in  Innocence  and 
matitation  (meditation)  sweet  thinking  on  the 
kind  love  which  flows  in  our  tender  hearted 
mind  which  is  overflowing  with  majestic  pleas- 
ure no  one  was  ever  so  polite  to  me  in  the  hole 
state  of  my  existence.  Mr.  Craky  you  must 
know  is  a  great  Buck  and  pretty  good-looking. 


64  MAEJORIE     FLEMING. 

"  I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nature's  fresli 
air.  The  birds  are  singing  sweetly  —  the  call 
doth  frisk  and  nature  shows  her  glorious  face." 

Here  is  a  confession :  "  I  confess  I  have 
been  very  more  like  a  little  young  divil  than  a 
creature  for  when  Isabella  went  up  stairs  to 
teach  me  religion  and  my  multiplication  and  to 
be  good  and  all  my  other  lessons  I  stamped 
■with  my  foot  and  threw  my  new  hat  which  she 
had  made  on  the  ground  and  was  sulky  and 
was  dreadfully  passionate,  but  she  never  whiped 
me  but  said  Marjory  go  into  another  room  and 
think  what  a  great  crime  you  are  committing 
letting  your  temper  git  the  better  of  you.  But 
I  went  so  sulkily  that  the  Devil  got  the  better 
of  me  but  she  never  never  never  whips  me  so 
that  I  think  I  would  be  the  better  of  it  and  the 
next  time  that  I  behave  ill  I  think  she  should 

do  it  for  she  never  does  it Isabella  has 

given  me  praise  for  checking  my  temper  for  I 
was  sulky  even  when  she  was  kneeling  an  hole 
hour  teaching  me  to  write." 

Our  poor  little  wifie,  she  has  no  doubts  of  the 
personality  of  the  Devil !  "  Yesterday  I  behave 
extremely  ill  in  God's  most  holy  church  for  I 
would  never  attend  myself  nor  let  Isabella 
attend  which  was  a  great  crime  for  she  often, 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  65 

often  tells  me  that  when  to  or  three  are 
geathered  together  God  is  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  it  was  the  very  same  Divil  that 
tempted  Job  that  tempted  me  I  am  sure ;  but  he 
resisted  Satan  though  he  had  boils  and  many 
many  other  niisfortunes  which  I  have  escaped. 
....  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  the  horible 
and  wretched  plaege  (plague)  that  my  multipli- 
cation gives  me  you  can't  conceive  it  the  most 
Devilish  thing  is  8  times  8  and  7  times  7  it  is 
what  nature  itself  cant  endure." 

This  is  delicious  ;  and  what  harm  is  there  in 
her  "  Devilish  "  ?  it  is  strong  language  merely; 
even  old  Rowland  Hill  used  to  say  "  he  grudged 
the  Devil  those  rough  and  ready  words."  "  I 
walked  to  that  delightful  place  Crakyhall  with  a 
delightful  young  man  beloved  by  all  his  friends 
especially  by  me  his  loveress,  but  I  must  not 
talk  any  more  about  him  for  Isa  said  it  is  not 
proper  for  to  speak  oi  gentalmen  but  I  will 
never  forget  him !  ....  I  am  very  very  glad 
that  satan  has  not  given  me  boils  and  many 
other  misfortunes  —  In  the  holy  bible  these 
words  are  written  that  the  Devil  goes  Hke  a 
roaring  lyon  in  search  of  his  pray  but  the  lord 
lets  us  escape  from  him  but  we"  {pauvre  pe- 
tite !)  "  do  not  strive  with  this  awfull  Spirit. 


66  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

....  To-day  I  pronunced  a  word  which  sliould 
never  come  out  of  a  lady's  lips  it  was  that  1 
called  John  a  Impudent  Bitch.  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  think  made  me  in  so  bad  a  humor  is  I 
got  one  or  two  of  that  bad  bad  sina  (senna)  tea 
to-day,"  —  a  better  excuse  for  bad  humor  and 
bad  language  than  most. 

She  has  been  reading  the  Book  of  Esthei- : 
"It,  was  a  dreadful  thing  that  Haman  was 
hanged  on  the  very  gallows  which  he  had  pre- 
pared for  Mordeca  to  hang  him  and  his  ten 
sons  thereon  and  it  Avas  very  wrong  and  cruel 
to  hang  his  sons  for  they  did  not  commit  tlie 
crime ;  bief  then  Jesus  teas  not  the)i  come  to 
teach  ns  to  he  merciful^  This  is  wise  and 
beautiful,  — has  upon  it  the  very  dew  of  youth 
and  of  holiness.  Out  of  the  mouths  of'  babes 
and  sucklings  He  perfects  his  praise. 

"This  is  Saturday  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it 
because  I  have  play  half  the  Day  and  I  get 
money  too  but  alas  I  owe  Isabella  !•  pence  for 
I  am  finned  2  pence  whenever  I  bite  my  nails. 
Isabella  is  teaching  me  to  make  simme  col- 
ings  nots  of  interrigations  peorids  commoes, 

■  etc As  this  is  Sunday  I  will  meditate 

upon  Senciable  and  Religious  subjects.  Tirst 
I  should  be  very  thankful  I  am  not  a  begger." 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  67 

This  amount  of  meditation  and  thankfulness 
seems  to  have  been  all  she  was  able  for. 

"  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  a  delightfull 
place,  Braehead  by  name,  belonging  to  Mrs. 
Crraford,  where  there  is  ducks  cocks  hens  bub- 
blyjocks  2  dogs  2  cats  and  swine  which  is  de- 
lightful. I  think  it  is  shocking  to  think  that  the 
dog  and  cat  should  bear  them  "  (this  is  a  medi- 
tation physiological),  "  and  they  are  drowned 
after  all.  I  would  rather  have  a  man-dog  than 
a  woman-dog,  because  they  do  not  bear  like 
women-dogs  ;  it  is  a  hard  case  —  it  is  shocking. 
1  cam  here  to  enjoy  natures  delightful  breath  it 
is  sweeter  than  a  fial  (phial)  of  rose  oil." 

Braehead  is  the  farm  the  historical  Jock 
Howison  asked  and  got  from  our  gay  James 
the  Fifth,  "  the  gudeman  o'  Ballengiech,"  as  a 
reward  for  the  services  of  his  flail  when  the 
King  had  the  worst  of  it  at  Cramond  Brig  with 
the  gypsies.  The  farm  is  unchanged  in  size 
from  that  time,  and  still  in  the  unbroken  line 
of  the  ready  and  victorious  thrasher.  Brae- 
head is  held  on  the  condition  of  the  possessor 
being  ready  to  present  the  King  with  a  ewer 
and  basin  to  wash  his  hands,  Jock  having  done 
this  for  his  unknown  king  after  the  splore,  and 
when  George  the  Fourth  came  to  Edinburgh 


68  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

this  ceremony  was  performed  in  silver  at  Holy- 
tood.  It  is  a  lovely  neuk  this  Braehead,  pre- 
served almost  as  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago. 
"  Lot  and  his  wife,"  mentioned  by  Maidie,  — 
two  quaintly  cropped  yew-trees,  —  still  thrive ; 
the  burn  runs  as  it  did  in  her  time,  and  sings 
the  same  quiet  tune,  —  as  much  the  same  and 
as  different  as  Now  and  The)i.  The  house  full 
of  old  family  relics  and  pictures,  the  sun  shin- 
ing on  them  through  the  small  deep  windows 
with  their  plate-glass ;  and  there,  blinking  at 
the  sun,  and  chattering  contentedly,  is  a  par- 
rot, that  might,  for  its  looks  of  eld,  have  been 
in  the  ark,  and  domineered  over  and  deaved 
the  dove.  Everything  about  the  place  is  old 
and  fresh. 

This  is  beautiful :  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  say 
that  I  forgot  God  —  that  is  to  say  I  forgot  to 
pray  to-day  and  Isabella  told  me  that  I  should 
be  thankful  that  God  did  not  forget  me  —  if 
he  did,  O  what  become  of  me  if  1  was  in  dan- 
ger and  God  not  friends  with  me — -I  must 
go  to  unquenchable  fire  and  if  I  was  tempted  to 
sin  —  how  could  I  resist  it  0  no  I  will  never 
do  it  again  —  no  no  — r  if  I  can  help  it." 
(Canny  wee  wifie  !)  "  My  religion  is  greatly 
falling  off  because  1  dont  pray  with  so  much 


MAEJOllIE     FLEMING.  69 

attention  when  I  am  saying  niv  prayers,  and 
niy  charecter  is  lost  among  the  Braehead  peo- 
ple. I  hope  I  will  be  religious  again  —  but  as 
for  regaining  my  charecter  I  despare  for  it." 
(Poor  little  "  habit  and  repute  "  l) 

Her  temper,  her  passion,  and  her  "  badness  " 
are  almost  daily  confessed  and  deplored :  "  ] 
will  never  again  trust  to  my  own  power,  for  ] 
see  that  I  cannot  be  good  without  God's  assist- 
auce  —  I  will  not  trust  in  my  own  selfe,  and 
Isa's  health  will  be  quite  ruined  by  me  —  it 
will  indeed."  "  Isa  has  giving  me  advice, 
which  is,  that  when  I  feal  Satan  beginning  to 
tempt  me,  that  I  flea  him  and  he  would  flea 
me."  "  Remorse  is  the  worst  thing  to  bear, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  I  will  fall  a  marter  to  it." 

Poor  dear  little  sinner  !  —  Here  comes  thff 
world  again :  "  In  my  travels  I  met  with  a 
handsome  lad  named  Charles  Balfour  Esq., 
and  from  him  I  got  ofers  of  marage  —  offers  ot 
marage,  did  I  say  ?  Nay  plenty  heard  me." 
A  fine  scent  for  "  breach  of  promise  "  ! 

This  is  abrupt  and  strong :  "  The  Divd  is 
curced  and  all  works.  'T  is  a  fine  work  New- 
ton Oil  the  profecies.  I  wonder  if  there  is 
another  book  of  poems  comes  near  the  Bible. 
The  Divil  alwavs  girns  at   the   sisrht   of  the 


70  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

Bible."  "Miss  Potime"  (her  "simpliton" 
friend)  "  is  very  fat ;  slie  pretends  to  be  very 
learned.  She  says  she  saw  a  stone  that  dropt 
from  the  skies  ;  but  she  is  a  good  Christian." 
Here  come  her  views  on  church  government : 
"An  Annibabtist  is  a  thing  I  am  not  a 
member  of  —  I  am  a  Pisplekan  (Episcopalian) 
just  now,  and"  (0  you  little  Laodicean  and 
Latitudinarian !)  "  a  Prisbeteran  at  Kirk- 
caldy !  "  —  {Blandda  !  Vagula  !  ccelim  et  ani- 
mum  mutas  quce  tracts  mare  (i.  e.  trans  Bodo- 
triam)-curris  /)  —  "  my  native  town."  "  Sen- 
timent is  not  what  I  am  acquainted  with  as 
yet,  though  I  wish  it,  and  should  like  to  prac- 
tise it"(!)  "I  wish  I  had  a  great,  great 
deal  of  gratitude  in  my  heart,  in  all  my  body." 
"There  is  a  new  novel  published,  named  Se/f- 
Control''  (Mrs.  Brunton's)  —  "  a  very  good 
maxim  foi-sooth  !  "  Tiiis  is  shocking:  "Yes- 
terday a  marrade  man,  named  Mr.  John  Bal- 
four, Esq.,  offered  to  kiss  me,  and  offered  to 
marry  me,  though  the  man  "  (a  fine  directness 
this  !)  "  was  espused,  and  his  wife  was  present 
and  said  he  must  ask  her  permission ;  but  he 
did  not.  I  think  he  was  ashamed  and  con- 
founded before  3  gentelman  —  Mr.  Jobson 
and  2  Mr.  Kings."     "  Mr.  Banester's  "  (Ban- 


I 


MAHJORIE     FLEMING.  71 

Ulster's)  "Budjet  is  to-iiiglit;  I  hope  it  will 
be  a  good  one.  A  great  many  authors  have 
expressed  themselves  too  sentimentally."  You 
are  right,  Marjorie.  "A  Mr.  Burns  writes  a 
beautiful  song  on  Mr.  Cunhaming,  whose  wife 
desarted  him — truly  it  is  a  most  beautiful 
one."  "  I  like  to  read  the  Fabulous  historys, 
about  the  histerys  of  Robin,  Dickey,  flapsay, 
and  Peccay,  and  it  is  very  amusing,  for  some 
were  good  birds  and  others  bad,  but  Peccaj 
was  the  most  dutiful  and  obedient  to  her  pari- 
ents."  "  Thomson  is  a  beautiful  author,  and 
Pope,  but  nothing  to  Shakespear,  of  which  I 
have  a  little  knolege.  Macbeth  is  a  pretty 
composition,  but  awful  one."  "  The  Newgate 
Calender  is  very  instructive  "  (!)  "  A  sailor 
called  here  to  say  farewell ;  it  must  be  dread- 
ful to  leave  his  native  country  when  he  might 
get  a  wife  ;  or  perhaps  me,  for  I  love  him  very 
much.  But  O  I  forgot,  Isabella  forbid  me  to 
speak  about  love."  This  antiphlogistic  regi- 
men and  lesson  is  ill  to  learn  by  our  Maidie, 
for  here  she  sins  again  :  "  Love  is  a  very  papi- 
thatick  thing "  (it  is  almost  a  pity  to  correct 
this  into  pathetic),  "as  well  as  troublesome 
and  tiresome  —  but  0  Isabella  forbid  me  to 
speak  of  it."     Here  are  her  reflections  on  a 


72  MAllJOlllE     FLEMING. 

pineapple  :  "  I  think  the  price  of  a  pine-apple 
is  very  dear :  it  is  a  whole  bright  goulden 
guinea,  that  might  have  sustained  a  poor  fam- 
ilv."  Here  is  a  new  vernal  simile  :  "  Tlie 
hedges  are  sprouting  like  chicks  from  the  eggs 
when  they  are  newly  hatched  or,  as  the  vulgar 
say,  clacked."  "  Doctor  Swift's  works  are 
very  funny  ;  I  got  some  of  them  by  heart." 
"  Moreheads  sermons  are  I  hear  much  praised, 
but  I  never  read  sermons  of  any  kind ;  but  J 
read  novelettes  and  my  Bible,  and  I  never  for- 
get it,  or  my  prayers."     Bravo,  Marjorie  ! 

She  seems  now,  when  still  about  six,  to  have 
broken  out  into  song :  — 

Ephibol  (Epigram  or  Epitaph  —  who  knows  which  ?) 
ON  JiY  DEAR  Love  Isabella. 

"  Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  in  betl, 
With  a  iiiglit-cap  on  her  head  ; 
Her  skin  is  soft,  lier  face  is  fair. 
And  she  has  very  pretty  hair; 
Siie  and  1  in  bed  lies  nice. 
And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice ; 
She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 
Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 
Her  nails  are  neat,  her  tcetli  are  Avliite, 
Her  eyes  are  very,  very  Ijright; 
In  a  conspicuous  town  slie  lives. 
And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives  : 
Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story, 
And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory." 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  I  6 

Here  are  some  bits  at  random  :  — 

"  Of  summer  I  am  very  fond, 
And  love  to  bathe  into  a  pond  ; 
The  look  of  sunshine  dies  away. 
And  will  not  let  me  out  to  play; 
I  love  the  morning's  sun  to  spy 
Glittering  through  the  casement's  eye. 
The  rays  of  light  are  very  sweet. 
And  puts  away  the  taste  of  meat ; 
The  balmy  breeze  comes  down  from  heaven, 
And  makes  us  like  for  to  be  living." 

"The  casawary  is  an  curious  bird,  and  so 
is  the  gigantic  crane,  and  the  pehcan  of  the 
wilderness,  whose  mouth  holds  a  bucket  of  fish 
and  water.  Fighting  is  what  ladies  is  not 
qualyfied  for,  they  would  not  make  a  good 
figure  in  battle  or  in  a  duel.  Alas  !  we  females 
are  of  little  use  to  our  country.  The  history 
of  all  the  malcontents  as  CA'er  was  hanged 
is  amusing."  Still  harping  on  the  Newgate 
Calendar ! 

"Braehead  is  extremely  pleasant  to  me  by 
the  companie  of  swine,  geese,  cocks,  etc.,  and 
they  are  the  dehght  of  my  soul." 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  a  melancholy 
story.  A  young  turkie  of  2  or  3  months  old, 
would  you  believe  it,  the  father  broke  its  leg, 
and  he  killed  another !  I  think  he  ought  to  be 
transported  or  hanged." 


74'  MAIIJOEIE     FLExMING. 

"  Queen  Street  is  a  very  gay  one,  and  so  is 
Princes  Street,  for  all  the  lads  and  lasses,  be- 
sides bucks  and  beggars,  parade  there." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  play  very  much,  for 
I  never  saw  one  in  all  my  life,  and  don't 
believe  I  ever  shall ;  but  I  hope  1  can  be  con- 
tent without  going  to  one.  I  can  be  quite 
happy  without  my  desire  being  granted." 

"  Some  days  ago  Isabella  had  a  terrible  fit 
of  the  toothake,  and  she  walked  with  a  long 
night-shift  at  dead  of  night  like  a  ghost,  and  I 
thought  she  was  one.  She  prayed  for  nature's 
sweet  restorer  —  balmy  sleep  —  but  did  not 
get  it  —  a  ghostly  figure  indeed  she  was, 
enough  to  make  a  sahit  tremble.  It  made  me 
quiver  and  shake  from  top  to  toe.  Super- 
stition is  a  very  mean  thing,  and  should  be 
despised  and  shunned." 

Here  is  her  Aveakness  and  her  strength 
again :  "In  the  love-novels  all  the  heroines 
are  very  desperate.  Isabella  will  not  allow  me 
to  speak  about  lovers  and  heroins,  and  'tis  too 
refined  for  my  taste."  "  Miss  Egward's  (Edge- 
worth's)  tails  are  very  good,  particularly  some 
that  are  very  much  adapted  for  youth  (!)  as 
Laz  Laurance  and  Tareltou,  False  Keys,  etc. 
etc." 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  75 

"  Tom  Jones  and  Grey's  Elegey  in  a  coun- 
try churcliyard  are  both  excellent,  and  much 
spoke  of  by  both  sex,  particularly  by  the  men." 
Are  our  Marjories  nowadays  better  or  worse 
because  they  cannot  read  Tom  Jones  un- 
harmed ?  More  better  than  worse ;  but  who 
among  them  can  repeat  Gray's  Lines  on  a 
Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  as  could  our 
Maidie  ? 

Here  is  some  more  of  her  prattle  :  "  I  went 
into  Isabella's  bed  to  make  her  smile  like  the 
Genius  Demedicus "  (the  Venus  de  Medicis) 
"  or  the  statute  in  an  ancient  Greece,  but  she 
fell  asleep  in  my  very  face,  at  which  my  anger 
broke  forth,  so  that  I  awoke  her  from  a  com- 
fortable nap.  All  was  now  hushed  up  again, 
but  again  my  anger  burst  forth  at  her  biding 
me  get  up." 

She  begins  thus  loftily,  — 

"  Death  the  righteous  love  to  see, 
But  from  it  doth  the  wicked  flee." 

Then  suddenly  breaks  off  (as  if  with  laugh- 
ter),— 

"  I  am  sure  they  fly  as  fast  as  their  legs  can  carry  them  1" 

"  There  is  a  thing  I  love  to  see, 
That  is  our  monkey  catch  a  flee." 


76  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

"  1  love  in  Isa's  bed  to  lie, 
Oh,  such  a  joy  and  luxury  ! 
The  Ijottoni  of  the  bed  I  sleep, 
And  with  ^rcat  care  within  I  creep ; 
Oft  I  embrace  her  feet  of  lillys. 
But  she  has  goton  all  the  pillys. 
Her  neck  I  never  can  embrace, 
But  1  do  hug  her  feet  in  place." 

How  cliildisli  and  yet  how  strong  and  h^ 
is  her  use  of  words !  "  I  lay  at  the  foot  ol 
the  bed  because  Isabella  said  I  disturbed  her 
by  continial  fighting  and  kicking,  but  I  was 
very  dull,  and  continially  at  work  reading  the 
Arabian  Nights,  which  I  could  not  have  done 
if  I  had  slept  at  the  top.  I  am  reading  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  I  am  much  interested 
in  the  fate  of  poor,  poor  Emily." 

Here  is  one  of  her  swains  :  — 

"  Very  soft  and  white  his  cheeks. 
His  hair  is  red,  and  grey  his  breeks ; 
His  tooth  is  like  the  daisy  fair, 
His  only  fault  is  in  his  hair." 

This  is  a  higher  flight :  — 

"Dedicated  to  Mrs.  H.  Crawford  by  the  Author, 
M.  F. 

"Throe  turkeys  fair  their  last  have  breathed. 
And  now  this  world  forever  leaved; 
Their  father,  and  their  mother  too. 
They  sigh  and  weep  as  well  as  you ; 
Indeed,  the  rats  their  bones  have  crunched. 


MARJOEIE     FLEMING.  77 

Into  eternity  theire  laanched. 
A  direful  death  indeed  tlicy  had. 
As  ^vad  put  any  parent  mad  ; 
But  slie  vras  more  than  usual  calm, 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam." 

This  last  word  is  saved  from  all  sin  by  its 
tender  age,  not  to  speak  of  the  want  of  the  u. 
We  fear  "  she  "  is  the  abandoned  mother,  in 
spite  of  her  previous  sighs  and  tears. 

"  Isabella  says  when  we  pray  we  should  pray 
fervently,  and  not  rattel  over  a  prayer  —  for 
that  we  are  kneeling  at  the  footstool  of  our 
Lord  and  Creator,  who  saves  us  from  eternal 
damnation,  and  from- unquestionable  fire  and 
brimston." 

She  lias  a  long  poem  on  Mary  Queen  ot 
Scots :  — 

"  Qaeea  Mary  was  much  loved  by  all, 
Both  by  the  great  and  by  the  small. 
But  hark  !  her  soul  to  heaven  doth  rise  ! 
And  I  suppose  she  has  gained  a  prize  — 
Tor  I  do  think  she  would  not  go 
Into  the  awful  place  below  ; 
There  is  a  thing  that  I  must  tell, 
Elizabeth  went  to  fire  and  hell ; 
He  who  would  teach  her  to  be  civil, 
It  must  be  her  great  friend  the  divil !  " 

She  hits  off  Darnley  well :  — 

"A  noble's  son,  a  handsome  lad. 
By  some  queer  way  or  other,  had 


78  MARJOEIE     FLEMING. 

Got  quite  the  better  of  her  heart, 
Witli  liim  she  always  talked  apart; 
Silly  he  was,  but  very  fair, 
A  greater  buck  was  not  found  there." 

"  By  some  queer  way  or  other "  ;  is  not  this 
the  general  case  and  the  mystery,  young  ladies 
and  gentlemen  ?  Goethe's  doctrine  of  "  elec- 
tive affinities  "  discovered  by  our  Pet  Maidie. 

Sonnet  to  a  Monkey. 

"  0  lively,  0  most  charming  pug 
Thy  graceful  air,  and  heavenly  mug; 
The  beauties  of  his  mind  do  sliine, 
And  every  bit  is  shaped  and  fine. 
Your  teeth  are  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Your  a  great  buck,  your  a  great  beau ; 
Your  eyes  are  of  so  nice  a  shape, 
More  like  a  Christian's  than  an  ape ; 
Your  cheek  is  like  the  rose's  blume, 
Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  plume ; 
Ilis  nose's  cast  is  of  the  Roman, 
He  is  a  very  pretty  woman. 
I  could  not  get  a  rhyme  for  Roman, 
So  was  obliged  to  call  him  woman." 

This  last  joke  is  good.  She  repeats  it  when 
writing  of  James  tlie  Second  being  killed  at 
Roxburgh :  — 

"  lie  was  killed  by  a  cannon  splinter. 
Quite  in  the  middle  of  the  winter; 
Perhaps  it  was  not  at  that  time, 
But  I  can  get  no  other  rhyme  !  " 


MAIUORIE     FLEMING.  79 

Here  is  one  of  her  last  letters,  dated  Kirk- 
caldy, 12th  October,  1811.  You  can  see  how 
her  nature  is  deepening  and  enrichhig  :  "  My 
Dear  Mother,  —  You  will  think  that  I  en- 
tirely forget  you  but  I  assure  you  that  you 
are  greatly  mistaken.  I  think  of  you  always 
and  often  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  between 
us  two  loving  creatures  of  nature.  We  have 
regular  hours  for  all  our  occupations  first  at 
7  o'clock  we  go  to  the  dancing  and  come  home 
at  8  we  then  read  our  Bible  and  get  our  re- 
peating and  then  play  till  ten  then  we  get  our 
music  till  11  when  we  get  our  writing  and  ac- 
counts we  sew  from  12  till  1  after  which  I  get 
my  gramer  and  then  work  till  five.  At  7  we 
come  and  knit  till  8  when  we  dont  go  to  the 
dancing.  This  is  an  exact  description.  I  must 
take  a  hasty  farewell  to  her  whom  I  love,  rever- 
ence and  doat  on  and  who  I  hope  thinks  the 
same  of 

"  ^Marjory  Fleming. 

"P.  S.  — Au  old  pack  of  cards  (I)  would  be 
very  exeptible." 

This  other  is  a  month  earlier  :  "  My  dear 
LITTLE  Mama,  —  I  was  truly  happy  to  hear 
that  you  were  all  well.     We  are  surrounded 


80  MAEJOTxIE     FLEMING. 

vritli  measles  at  present  on  every  side,  for  the 
Herons  got  it,  and  Isabella  Heron  was  near 
Heath's  Hoor,  and  one  night  her  father  lifted 
her  out  of  bed,  and  she  fell  down  as  they 
thought  lifeless.  Mr.  Heron  said,  '  That  las- 
sie 's  deed  noo '  —  'I  'm  no  deed  yet.'  She  then 
threw  up  a  big  worm  nine  inches  and  a  half 
long.  I  have  begun  dancing,  but  am  not  very 
fond  of  it,  for  the  boys  strikes  and  mocks  me. 
—  I  have  been  another  night  at  tlie  dancing ; 
I  like  it  better.  I  will  write  to  you  as  often 
as  I  can  ;  but  I  am  afraid  not  every  week.  I 
lo7ig  for  you  icith  the  longings  of  a  child  to  em- 
brace you  —  to  fold  you  in  my  arms.  I  respect 
you  tcith  all  the  respect  due  to  a  mother.  You 
dont  knoio  how  I  love  you.  So  I  shall  remain, 
your  loving  child — JM.  Fleming." 

What  rich  involution  of  love  in  the  words 
marked  !  Here  are  some  lines  to  her  beloved 
Isabella,  in  July,  ISll :  — 

"  There  is  a  thing  that  I  do  want, 
AVitli  you  tliese  beauteous  walks  to  haunt. 
We  would  be  happy  if  you  would 
Try  to  come  over  if  you  could. 
Then  I  would  all  quite  happy  be 
Isow  and  for  all  eternity. 
My  mother  is  so  very  sweet, 
And  checks  mv  appetite  to  eat ; 


MARJORIE     FLEMIXG.  81 

My  father  shows  us  what  to  do ; 

But  0  I  'ni  sure  that  I  want  yo'vi- 

I  liave  no  more  of  poetry  ; 

O  Isa  do  remember  me. 

And  try  to  love  your  Marjory." 

In  a  letter  from  '•'  Isa  "  to 

'•'  Miss  Muff  Maidie  Marjory  Fleming. 
favored  by  Rare  Rear- Admiral  Fleming," 

she  says  :  "  I  long  much  to  see  you,  and  talk 
over  all  our  old  stories  together,  and  to  hear 
you  read  and  repeat.  I  am  pining  for  my  old 
friend  Cesario,  and  poor  Lear,  and  wicked 
Richard.  How  is  the  dear  Multiphcation 
table  going  on  ?  are  you  still  as  much  attached 
to  9  times  9  as  you  used  to  be  ?  " 

But  this  dainty,  bright  thiug  is  about  to  flee, 
—  to  come  "  quick  to  confusion."  The  measles 
she  writes  of  seized  her,  and  she  died  on  the 
I9th  of  December,  1811.  The  day  before  her 
death,  Sunday,  she  sat  up  in  bed,  worn  and 
tliiu,  her  eye  gleaming  as  with  the  hght  of  a 
commg  world,  and  with  a  tremulous,  old  voice 
repeated  the  following  lines  by  Burns,  —  heavy 
with  the  shadow  of  death,  and  lit  with  the 
fantasy  of  the  judgment-seat,  — the  pubUcan's 
prayer  in  paraphrase  :  — 

"  Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 


8:^  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

Some  drops  of  joy,  with  draughts  of  ill  between, 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  renewing  storms. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alanns? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  ahode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt  my  terrors  are  in  arms ; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

"  Fain  would  I  say,  forgive  my  foul  offence. 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 

But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense. 

Again  I  might  forsake  fair  virtue's  way, 

Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray. 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man. 

Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan, 
"  Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  temptation  ran  ? 

"  0  thou  great  Governor  of  all  below. 
If  I  might  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  ; 
With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me 
Those  headstrong  furious  passions  to  confine. 

For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line; 
O  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotexce  Dtvink." 

It  is  more  affecting  tlian  we  care  to  say  to 
read  her  mother's  and  Isabella  Keith's  letters 
written  immediately  after  her  death.  Old  and 
withered,  tattered  and  pale,  they  are  now  : 
but  when  you  read  them,  how  quick,  how 
throbbing  with  life  and  love  !  how  rich  in  that 
language  of  affection  which  onlv  Avomen,  and 


MAEJORIE     FLEMING.  83 

Shakespeare,  and  Luther  can  use,  —  that 
power  of  detaining  the  soul  over  the  beloved 
object  and  its  loss. 

"K.  Philip  to  Constance. 

You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Const.  Grief  fills  tlie  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
StufiPs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form. 
Then  I  have  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief." 

What  variations  cannot  love  play  on  this  one 
string ! 

In  her  first  letter  to  Miss  Keith,  Mrs.  Flem- 
ing says  of  her  dead  Maidie :  '"'  Never  did  I 
behold  so  beautiful  an  object.  It  resembled 
the  finest  wax-work.  There  was  in  the  counte- 
nance an  expression  of  sweetness  and  serenity 
which  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  pure  spirit 
had  anticipated  the  joys  of  heaven  ere  it  quit- 
ted the  mortal  frame.  To  tell  you  what  your 
Maidie  said  of  you  would  fill  volumes ;  for  you 
was  the  constant  theme  of  her  discourse,  the 
subject  of  her  thoughts,  and  ruler  of  her  actions. 
The  last  time  she  mentioned  you  was  a  few 
hours  before  all  sense  save  that  of  suffering 
was  suspended,  when  she  said  to  Dr.  Johnstone, 
*  If  vou  will  let  me  out  at  the  New  Year,  I  will 


84  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

be  quite  contented.'  I  asked  what  made  her  so 
anxious  to  get  out  then.  '  I  want  to  purchase 
a  'New  Year's  gift  for  Isa  Keith  with  the  six- 
pence you  gave  me  for  being  patient  in  the  mea- 
sles ;  and  I  would  like  to  choose  it  myself.' 
I  do  not  remember  her  speaking  afterwards, 
except  to  complain  of  her  head,  till  just  before 
she  expired,  when  she  articulated,  '  0  mother  ! 
mother  ! ' " 

Do  we  make  too  much  of  this  little  child,  who 
has  been  in  her  grave  in  Abbotshall  Kirkyard 
these  fifty  and  more  years  ?  We  may  of  her 
cleverness,  —  not  of  her  affectionateness,  her 
nature.  What  a  picture  the  animosa  infans 
gives  us  of  herself,  her  vivacity,  her  passionate- 
ness,  her  precocious  love-making,  her  passion 
for  nature,  for  swine,  for  all  living  things,  her 
reading,  her  turn  for  expression,  her  satire,  her 
frankness,  her  little  sins  and  rages,  her  great 
repentances  !  We  don't  wonder  Walter  Scott 
carried  her  off  in  the  neuk  of  his  plaid,  and 
played  himself  with  her  for  hours. 

The  year  before  she  died,  when  in  Edinburgh, 
she  was  at  a  Twelfth  Night  supper  at  Scott's, 
in  Castle  Street.  The  company  had  all  come,  — 
all  but  Marjorie.    Scott's  familiars,  whom  we  all 


Ml 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  ^7 

know,  were  there,  —  all  were  come  but  Marjo- 
rie ;  and  all  were  dull  because  Scott  was  dull. 
"  Where 's  that  bairn  ?  what  can  have  come  over 
her  ?  I  '11  go  mvself  aud  see."  And  he  was 
getting  up,  and  would  have  gone,  when  the 
bell  rang,  and  in  came  Duncan  Roy  and  his 
henchman  Tougald,  with  the  sedan-chair,  which 
was  brought  right  into  the  lobby,  and  its  top 
raised.  And  there,  in  its  darkness  and  dingy  old 
cloth,  sat  Maidie  in  white,  her  eyes  gleaming, 
and  Scott  bending  over  her  in  ecstasy,  —  "  hung 
over  her  enamored."  "  Sit  ye  there,  my  dau- 
tie,  till  they  all  see  you  " ;  and  forthwith  he 
brought  them  all.  You  can  fancy  the  scene. 
And  he  lifted  her  up  and  marched  to  his  seat 
with  her  on  his  stout  shoulder,  and  set  her  down 
beside  him  ;  and  then  began  the  night,  and  such 
anight !  Those  who  knew  Scott  best  said  that 
night  was  never  equalled ;  Maidie  and  he  were 
the  stars ;  and  she  gave  them  Constance's 
speeches  and  Hehellyn,  the  ballad  then  much 
in  vogue,  and  all  her  repertoire,  —  Scott 
showing  her  off,  and  being  ofttimes  rebuked 
by  her  for  his  intentional  blunders. 

We   are  indebted  for  the  following  —  and 
our  readers  will  be  not  unwillino:  to  share  our 


88  MARJOEIE     FLEMIXG. 

obligations  —  to  her  sister  :  "  Her  birtli  was 
IStli  January,  1S03  ;  her  deatli,  19th  Decem- 
ber, 1811.  I  take  this  from  her  Bibles*  I  be- 
lieve she  was  a  child  of  robust  health,  of  much 
vigor  of  body,  and  beautifully  formed  arms, 
and  until  her  last  illness,  never  w^as  an  hour  in 
bed.  She  was  niece  to  Mrs.  Keith,  residing  in 
No.  1  North  Charlotte  Street,  who  was  not 
Mrs.  Murray  Keith,  although  very  intimately 
acquainted  with  that  old  lady.  My  aunt  Avas 
a  daughter  of  Mr.  James  Rae,  surgeon,  and 
married  the  younger  son  of  old  Keith  of 
Kavelstone.  Corstorphine  Hill  belonged  to 
my  aunt's  husband ;  and  his  eldest  son,  Sir 
Alexander  Keith,  succeeded  his  uncle  to  both 
Ravelstone  and  Dunnottar.  The  Keiths  were 
not  connected  by  relationship  with  the  Howi- 
sons  of  Braehead ;  but  my  grandfather  and 
grandmother  (who  was),  a  daughter  of  Cant  of 
Thurston  and  Giles-Grange,  were  on  the  most 
intimate  footing  with  our  Mrs.  Keith's  grand- 
father and  grandmother ;  and  so  it  has  been 
for  three  generations,  and  the  friendship  con- 
summated by  my  cousin  William  Keith  marry- 
ing Isabella  Craufurd. 

*  "  Her  Bible  is  before  me ;  a  })air,  as  then  called;  tlie 
faded  marks  are  just  as  she  placed  them.  There  is  one  at 
David's  lament  over  Jonathan." 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  89 

''As  to  my  aunt  and  Scott,  they  were  on 
a  very  intimate  footing.  He  asked  my  aunt  to 
be  godmother  to  his  eldest  daughter,  Sophia 
Charlotte.  I  had  a  copy  of  !Miss  Edgeworth's 
'  Rosamond,  and  Harry  and  Lucy '  for  long, 
which  was  'a  gift  to  Marjorie  from  Walter 
Scott,'  probably  the  first  edition  of  that  attrac- 
tive series,  for  it  wanted  '  Frank,'  which  is 
always  now  published  as  part  of  the  series, 
under  the  title  of  Earlij  Lessons.  I  regret  to 
say  these  little  volumes  have  disappeared." 

"  Sir  Walter  was  no  relation  of  Marjorie's, 
but  of  the  Keiths,  through  the  Swintons  ;  and, 
like  Marjorie,  he  stayed  much  at  Ravelstone  in 
his  early  days,  with  his  grand-aunt  Mrs.  Keith ; 
and  it  was  while  seeing  him  there  as  a  boy, 
that  another  aunt  of  mine  composed,  when  he 
was  about  fourteen,  the  lines  prognosticating 
his  future  fame  that  Lockhart  ascribes  in  his 
Life  to  Mrs.  Cockburn,  authoress  of  '  The 
Flowers  of  the  Forest '  :  — 

'  Go  on,  dear  joutli,  the  glorious  path  pursue 
Whicli  bounteous  Nature  kindly  smooths  for  you ; 
Go  bid  the  seeds  her  hands  have  sown  arise, 
By  timely  culture,  to  their  native  skies ; 
Go,  and  employ  the  poet's  heavenly  art, 
Tsot  merely  to  delight,  but  mend  the  heart.' 

Mrs.  Keir  was  my  aunt's  name,  another  of  Dr. 


90  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

Rae's  daughters."  We  cannot  better  end  than 
in  words  from  this  same  pen :  "  I  have  to 
ask  you  to  forgive  my  anxiety  in  gathering  up 
the  fragments  of  Marjorie's  last  days,  but  I 
have  an  ahnost  sacred  feehng  to  all  that  per- 
tains to  her.  You  are  quite  correct  in  stating 
that  measles  were  the  cause  of  her  death.  My 
mother  was  struck  by  the  patient  quietness 
manifested  by  Marjorie  during  this  illness,  un- 
like her  ardent,  impulsive  nature ;  but  love  and 
poetic  feeling  were  unquenched.  When  Dr. 
Johnstone  rewarded  her  submissiveness  \vith  a 
sixpence,  the  request  speedily  followed  that  she 
might  get  out  ere  New  Year's  day  came.  When 
asked  why  she  was  so  desirous  of  gettiug  out, 
she  immediately  rejoined,  '0,  1  am  so  anxious 
to  buy  something  with  my  sixpence  for  my 
dear  Isa  Keith.'  Again,  when  lying  very  still, 
her  mother  asked  her  if  there  was  anything 
she  wished:  '  O  yes  !  if  you  would  just  leave 
the  room  door  open  a  wee  bit,  and  play  "  The 
Land  o'  the  Leal,"  and  I  will  lie  and  think, 
and  enjoy  myself  (this  is  just  as  stated  to  me 
by  her  mother  and  mine).  Well,  the  happy 
day  came,  alike  to  parents  and  child,  when 
Marjorie  was  allowed  to  come  forth  from  the 
nursery  to  the  parlor.     It  was  Sabbath  even- 


MARJORIE     FLEMING.  91 

iug,  and  after  tea.  My  father,  who  idolized 
this  child,  and  never  afterwards  in  my  hearing 
mentioned  her  name,  took  her  in  his  arms  ;  and 
while  walking  her  up  and  down  the  room,  she 
said,  '  Father,  I  will  repeat  something  to  you ; 
what  would  you  Uke  ?  '  He  said,  '  Just  choose 
yourself,  Maidie.'  She  hesitated  for  a  moment 
between  the  paraphrase,  '  Few  are  thy  days,  and 
full  of  woe,'  and  the  lines  of  Burns  already 
quoted,  but  decided  on  the  latter,  a  remarkable 
choice  for  a  child.  The  repeating  these  lines 
seemed  to  stir  up  the  depths  of  feeling  in  her 
soul.  She  asked  to  be  allowed  to  wiite  a 
poem ;  there  was  a  doubt  whether  it  would  be 
right  to  allow  her,  in  case  of  hurting  her 
eyes.  She  pleaded  earnestly,  '  Just  this  once ' ; 
the  point  was  yielded,  her  slate  was  given 
her,  and  with  great  rapidity  she  wrote  an  ad- 
dress of  fourteen  lines,  '  to  her  loved  cousiu 
on  the  author's  recovery,'  her  last  work  on 
earth :  — 

'  Oil !  Isa,  pain  did  visit  me, 
1  was  at  the  last  extremity  ; 
How  often  did  I  think  of  you, 
i  wished  your  graceful  form  to  view, 
To  clasp  you  La  my  weak  embrace, 
Indeed  I  thought  I  'd  run  my  race  : 
Good  care,  I  'm  sure,  was  of  me  taken, 


92  MARJORIE     FLEMING. 

But  still  indeed  I  was  much  shaken. 

At  last  I  daily  strength  did  gain, 
And  oh  !  at  last,  away  went  pain ; 
At  length  the  doctor  tliought  I  might 
Stay  in  the  parlor  all  the  night ; 
I  now  continue  so  to  do. 
Farewell  to  Nancy  and  to  you.' 

She  went  to  bed  apparently  well,  awoke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  with  the  old  cry  of  woe  to 
a  mother's  heart,  '  My  head,  my  head  ! '  Three 
days  of  the  dire  malady,  '  water  in  the  head/ 
followed,  and  the  end  came." 

"  Soft,  silken  primrose,  fading  timelessly." 

It  is  needless,  it  is  impossible,  to  add  any- 
thing to  thic :  the  fervor,  the  sweetness,  the 
flush  of  poetic  ecstasy,  the  lovely  and  glowing 
eye,  the  perfect  nature  of  that  bright  and 
warm  intelligence,  that  darling  child,  —  Lady 
Nairne's  words,  and  the  old  tune,  steahng  up 
from  the  depths  of  the  human  heart,  deep  call- 
ing unto  deep,  gentle  and  strong  like  the  waves 
of  the  great  sea  hushing  themselves  to  sleep 
in  the  dark  ;  —  the  words  of  Burns  touching 
the  kindred  chord,  her  last  numbers  "  wildly 
sweet"  traced,  with  thin  and  eager  fingers, 
already  touched  by  the  last  enemy  and  friend, 
—  moriens  eanit,  —  and  that  love  which  is  so 


MARJORIE     FLEMING. 


93 


soon  to  be  her  everlasting  light,  is  her  soug's 
burden  to  the  end. 

"  She  set  as  sets  the  raorning  star,  which  goes 
Not  dowa  behind  the  darkened  west,  nor  hides 
Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven." 


STATE  NORMAL  SCHiflL, 

Los  Arigetes.  Cai. 


JOHN  LEECH. 


F  man  is  made  to  mourn,  he  also, 
poor  fellow  !  and  without  doubt 
therefore,  is  made  to  laugh.  He  needs  it 
all,  and  he  gets  it.  For  human  nature 
maj  say  of  herself,  in  the  words  of  the  bal- 
lad, "  Werena  my  heart  licht,  I  wad  die." 

Man.  is  the  only  animal  that  laughs  ;  it  is 
as  peculiar  to  him  as  his  chin  and  his  hippo- 
campus  minor.^     The  perception  of  a  joke, 


*  Xo  other  animal  lias  a  chin  proper ;  and  it  is 
a  comfort,  in  its  own  small  way,  that  Mr.  Huxley 
has  not  yet  found  the  lesser  sea-hoi'se  iu  our  grand- 
father's brain. 


b  JOHN    LEECH. 

the  smile,  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  the 
quiet  laugh,  the  roar  of  laughter,  are  all  our 
own  ;  and  we  may  be  laughed  as  well  as 
tickled  to  death,  as  in  the  story  of  the  French 
nun  of  mature  years,  who,  during  a  vehement 
lifc  of  laughter,  was  observed  by  her  sisters  to 
sit  suddenly  still  and  look  very  "  gash  "  (like 
the  Laird  of  Garscadden  *),  this  being  con- 
sidered a  further  part  of  the  joke,  when  they 
found  she  was  elsewhere. 

In  books,  old  and  new,  there  is  no  end  of 
philosophizing  upon  the  ludicrous  and  its 
cause  ;  from  Aristotle,  who  says  it  is  some 
error  in  truth  or  propriety,  but  at  the  same 
time  neither  painful  nor  pernicious  ;  and 
Cicero,  who  defines  it  as  that  which,  without 
impropriety,  notes  and  exposes  an  impro- 
priety ;  to  Jean  Paul,  who  says  it  is  the  op- 
posite of  the  sublime,  the  infinitely  great, 

*   Vide  Dean  Ramsay's  Reminiscences. 


JOHN    LEECH.  7 

and  is  therefore  the  infinitely  little  ;  and 
Kant,  who  gives  it  as  the  sudden  conversion 
into  nothing  of  a  long  raised  and  highly 
wrought  expectation  ;  many  have  been  the 
attemps  to  unsphere  the  spirit  of  a  joke  and 
make  it  tell  its  secret  ;  but  we  agree  with 
our  excellent  and  judicious  friend  Quinc- 
tilian,  that  its  ratio  is  at  best  anceps.  There 
is  a  certain  robust  felicity  about  old  Hobbes's 
saying,  that  '•  it  is  a  sudden  glonj,  or  sense  of 
eminency  above  others  or  our  former  selves." 
There  is  no  doubt  at  least  about  the  sudden- 
ness and  the  glory  ;  all  true  laughter  must 
be  involuntary,  must  come  and  go  as  it  lists, 
must  take  us,  and  shake  us  heartily  and  by 
surprise.  No  man  can  laugh  any  more  than 
he  can  sneeze  at  will,  and  he  has  nearly  as 
little  to  do  with  its  ending  :  it  dies  out,  dis- 
daining to  be  killed.  He  may  grin  and  guf- 
faw, because  these  are  worked  by  muscles 
under  the  dominion  of  volition  ;    but  vour 


8  JOHN    LEECH. 

diaphragm,  the  midriff,  into  which  your 
joker  pokes  his  elbow,  he  is  the  great  organ 
of  genuine  laughter  and  the  sudden  glory,  and 
he,  as  you  all  know,  when  made  absurd  by 
hiccup,  is  masterless  as  the  wind,  "  untama- 
ble as  flies" ;  therefore  is  he  called  by  the  grave 
Haller,  nohilissimus  jpost  cor  musculus ;  for, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  heart  is  only  a 
(often  very)  hollow  muscle.  If  you  wish  to 
know  what  is  done  in  your  interior  when 
you  laugh,  here  it  is  from  Dr.  Carpenter. 
He  classes  it  along  with  sobbing  and  hiccup, 
and  says  :  "  In  it  the  muscles  of  expiration 
are  in  convulsive  movement,  more  or  less 
violent,  and  send  out  the  breath  in  a  series 
of  jerks,  the  glottis  being  open,"  —  the  glottis 
being  the  little  chink  at  the  top  of  the  wind- 
pipe. 

As  to  the  mental  impression  on  the  senso- 
rium  that  sets  these  jerks  agoing,  and  arches 
that  noble  muscle,  we,  as  already  said,  think 


JOHN    LElI'H.  9 

it  may  be  left  to  a  specific  sense  of  its  own, 
and  that  laughter  is  the  effect  and  very  often 
the  cause  of  the  laughable,  and  therefore  of 
itself,  — a  definition  which  has  the  merit  of 
being  self-contained.  But  is  it  not  well  that 
we  are  made  to  laugh,  that,  from  the  first 
sleepy  gleam  moving  like  sunshine  over  an 
infant's  cheek,  to  the  cheery  and  feeble  chir- 
rup of  his  great-grandfather  by  the  fireside, 
we  laugh  at  the  laughable,  when  the  depths  of 
our  strange  nature  are  dappled  and  rippled, 
or  tossed  into  wildest  laughter  by  anything, 
so  that  it  be  droll,  just  as  we  shudder  when 
soused  with  cold  Avater.  —  because  we  can't 
help  it  ? 

But  we  are  drifting  into  disquisition,  and 
must  ])eware.  What  is  it  to  us  or  the  public 
that  the  pneumogastric  and  phrenic  nerves 
are  the  telegraphs  from  their  headr^uarters 
in  the  brain  to  this  same  midriff  ;  that  if  cut, 
there  would  be  an  end  of  our  funnv  mes- 


10  JOHN    LEECH. 

sages,  and  of  a  good  deal  more  ;  that  the 
musculus  nohilissimus,  if  wounded  in  its  feel- 
ings from  without  or  from  within,  takes  to 
outrageous  laughter  of  the  dreariest  sort  ; 
that  if  anything  goes  wrong  at  the  central 
thalami,  as  they  are  called,  of  these  nerves, 
the  Vehicles  of  will  and  feeling,  they  too 
make  sad  fools  of  themselves  by  sending 
down  absurd,  incoherent  telegrams  "  at 
lairge  "  ? 

One  might  be  diffuse  upon  the  various 
ways  in  which  laughter  seizes  upon  and  deals 
with  mankind  :  how  it  excruciates  some, 
making  them  look  and  yell  as  if  caught  in 
a  trap.  How  a  man  takes  to  crowing  like 
a  cock,  or  as  if  imder  permanent  hooping- 
cough,  ending  his  series  of  explosions  vic- 
toriously with  his  well-known  "  clarion  wild 
and  shrill."  How  provocative  of  laughter 
such  a  musical  performance  always  is  to 
his  frie^ds,  leading  them  to  lay  snares  for 


JOHN    LEECH.  11 

him  !  We  knew  an  excellent  man  —  a  coun- 
try doctor —  "vvho,  if  wanted  in  the  village, 
might  be  traced  ont  by  his  convivial  crow. 
It  was  droll  to  observe  him  resisting  inter- 
nally and  on  the  sly  the  beginnings  of  his 
bravura ;  how  it  always  prevailed.  How 
another  friend,  huge,  learned,  and  wise, 
Avhom  laughter  seizes  and  rends,  is  made 
desperate,  and  at  times  ends  in  crashing  his 
chair,  and  concluding  his  burst  on  its  ruins, 
andon  the  floor.  In  houses  where  he  is  fa- 
miliar, a  special  chair  is  set  for  him,  braced 
with  iron  for  the  stress. 

Then  one  might  discourse  on  the  uses  of 
laughter  as  a  muscular  exercise  ;  on  its  draw- 
ing into  action  lazy  muscles,  supernumera- 
ries, which  get  off  easily  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances ;  how  much  good  the  convulsive 
succussion  of  the  vrhole  man  does  to  his 
chylo-poietic  and  other  viscera  ;  how  it 
laughs  to  scorn  care  and  malaise  of  all  kinds  : 


12  JOHx\    LEECH. 

liovv  it  makes  you  cry  without  sorroAV,  and 
ache  every  inch  of  you  without  wrong  done 
to  any  one  ;  how  it  clears  the  liver  and  en- 
livens the  spleen,  and  makes  the  very  cockles 
of  the  heart  to  tingle.  By  the  by,  what  are 
these  cockles  of  tradition  but  the  columnce 
carnem,  that  pull  aAvay  at  the  valves,  and 
keep  all  things  tight  ? 

But  why  should  w^e  trouble  ourselves  and 
you  wdth  either  the  physiology  or  the  philos- 
ophy of  laughter,  when  all  that  anybody 
needs  to  say  or  to  hear  is  said,  so  as  to  make 
all  after  saying  hopeless  and  needless,  by 
Sydney  Smith,  in  his  two  chapters  on  Wit 
and  Humor,  in  his  Notes  of  Lectures  on  Moral 
Philosophy  ?  Why  it  is  that  wlien  any  one 
—  except  possibly  Mr.  Tupper  —  hears  for 
the  first  time  that  wisest  of  wits'  joke  to  his 
doctor,  when  told  by  him  to  "  take  a  walk 
on  an  empty  stomach  "  ;  —  "  on  whose  ? "  — 
he  laughs   right  out,  loud  and  strong,   may 


JOHN    LEECH.  13 

be  a  question  as  liai'd  to  ausvver  as  the  why 
he  curio  up  his  nose  when  tickled  with  a 
straw,  or  onoe^es  vvhen  he  looks  at  the  sun  ; 
but  it  is  not  hard  to  be  thankful  for  the 
joke,  and  for  the  tickle,  and  for  the  sneeze. 
Our  business  rather  is  now  gratefully  to 
acknowledge  the  singular  genius,  the  great 
personal  and  artistic  worth,  of  one  of  our  best 
masters  of  "  heart-easing  mirth,"  than  to  dis- 
course upon  the  why  and  how  he  makes  us 
laugh  so  pleasantly,  so  wholesomely  and  well, 
—  and  to  deplore,  along  with  all  his  friends, 
(who  has  not  in  him  lost  a  friend  ?)  his  md- 
den  and  irreparable  loss.  It  was  as  if  some- 
thing personal  to  every  one  was  gone  ;  as  if 
.1  fruit  we  all  ate  and  rejoiced  in  had  van- 
ished forever  ;  a  something  good  and  cheery, 
and  to  be  thankful  for,  which  came  every 
week  as  sure  as  Thursday  —  never  to  come 
again.  Our  only  return  to  him  for  all  his 
unfailing  goodness  and  cheer  is  the  memory 


14  JOHN    LEECH. 

of  the  heart ;  and  he  has  it  if  any  man  in 
the  British  empire  has.  The  noble,  honest, 
kindly;  diligent,  sound-hearted,  modest,  and 
manly  John  Leech,  —  the  very  incarnation 
in  look,  character,  and  work  of  the  best  in 
an  Englishman. 

As  there  is  and  has  always  been,  since  we 
had  letters  or  art  of  our  own,  a  rich  abound- 
ing power  and  seiise  of  humor  and  of  fun  in 
the  English  nature,  so  ever  since  that  same 
nature  was  pleased  to  divert  and  express 
itself  and  its  jokes  in  art  as  well  as  in  books. 
we  have  had  no  lack  of  depicters  of  the  droll, 
the  odd,  the  terrible,  and  the  queer.  Ho- 
garth is  the  first  and  greatest  of  them  all,  the 
greatest  master  in  his  own  terribilc  via  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  If  you  want  to  know 
his  worth  and  the  exquisite  beauty  of  his 
coloring,  study  his  pictures,  and  possess  his 
prints,  and  read  Charles  Lamb  on  his  genius. 
Then   came  the  savage  Gillrav,  strong  and 


JOHN    LEECH.  15 

coarse  as  Chiircliill,  the  very  Tipton  Slasher 
of  political  caricature  ;  then  we  had  Bun- 
biiry,  Eowlandson,  and  Woodward^  more  vio- 
lent than  strong,  more  odd  than  droll,  and 
often  more  disgusting  than  either.  Smirke, 
with  his  delicate,  pure,  pleasant  humor,  as 
seen  in  his  plates  to  Don  Quixote,  which  are 
not  unworthy  of  that  marvellous  book,  the 
most  deeply  and  exquisitely  humorous  piece 
of  genius  in  all  literature  ;  then  Edwin  Land- 
seer's  Monkeyana,  forgotten  by  and  we  fear 
unknown  to  many,  so  wickedly  funny,  so 
awfully  human,  as  almost  to  convert  us  to 
Mr.  Huxley's  pedigree,  —  The  Duel,  for 
instance.  Then  we  had  Henry  Aiken  in 
the  Hunting  Field,  and  poor  Heath,  the  ex- 
Captain  of  Dragoons,  facile  and  profuse,  un- 
scrupulous and  clever.  Then  the  greatest 
since  Hogarth,  though  limited  in  range  and 
tending  to  excess,  George  Cruickshank,  who 
happily  still   lives   and  plies  his   matchless 


16  JOHN    LEECH. 

needle  ;  —  it  would  take  an  entire  paper  to 
expound  bis  keen,  penetrating  power,  kis 
moral  intensity,  his  gift  of  wild  grimace,  the 
dexterity  and  super-subtlety  of  bis  etching, 
its  firm  and  delicate  lines.  Then  came  poor 
short-lived  tragical  Seymour,  whom  Thack- 
eray wished  to  succeed  as  artist  to  PicJcwicJc ; 
he  embodied  Pickwick  as  did  "  Phiz,"  — 
Hablot  Browne,  —  Messrs.  Quilp  and  Peck- 
sniff, and  Micky  Free.,  and  whose  steeple- 
chasing  Irish  cocktails  we  all  know  and 
relish  ;  but  his  manner  is  too  much  for  him 
and  for  us,  and  his  ideas  are  neither  deep 
nor  copious,  hence  everlasting  and  weak  repe- 
titions of  himself.  Kenny  MeadoAvs,  with 
more  genius,  especially  for  fiends  and  all 
eldritch  fancies,  and  still  more  mannerism. 
Sibson  and  Hood,  whose  drawings  were 
quaint  and  queer  enough,  but  his  words  bet- 
ter and  queerer.  Thackeray,  -very  great, 
answering  wonderfully  his  own  idea.      We 


JOHN    LEECH.  17 

wonder  that  his  Snobs  and  Modern  Novelists 
and  miscellaneous  papers  were  ever  published 
without  his  own  cuts.  What  would  Mrs. 
Perkins's  Ball  be  without  The  Mulligan,  as 
the  spread-eagle,  frantic  and  glorious,  doing 
the  mazurka,  without  Miss  Bunyon,  and  them 
all  ;  and  the  good  little  Nightingale,  singing 
'•  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  to  that  young,  pre- 
mature brute  Hewlett,  in  ]Jr.  Birch.  But  we 
have  already  recorded  our  estimate  of  Mr. 
Thackeray's  worth  as  an  artist  ;  *  and  all  his 
drolleries  and  quaint  bits  of  himself,  —  his 
comic  melancholy,  his  wistful  children,  his 
terrific  soldans  in  the  early  Punches.  They 
should  all  be  collected,  —  w^herever  he  escapes 
from  his  pen  to  his  pencil,  they  should  never 
be  divorced.  Then  Doyle,  with  his  wealth 
of  dainty  fantasies,  his  glamourie,  his  won- 

*  North  British  Review,  No.  LXXIX.,  Februa- 
ry, 1864. 


18  JOHN    LEECH. 

derfui  power  of  expressing  the  weird  and  un- 
cann}--,  his  fairies  and  goblins,  his  enchanted 
castles  and  maidens,  his  plump  caracolling 
pony  chargers,  his  charm  of  color  and  of  un- 
earthly beauty  in  his  water-colors.  No  one 
is  more  thoroughly  himself  and  alone  than 
Doyle.  We  need  only  name  his  father, 
"  H.  B.,"  the  master  of  gentlemanly,  politi- 
cal satire,  —  as  Gillray  was  of  brutal.  Ten- 
niel  we  still  have,  excellent,  careful  and 
often  strong  and  effective  ;  but  more  an  artist 
and  a  draughtsman  than  a  genius  or  a  hu- 
morist. 

John  Leech  is  different  from  all  these, 
and,  taken  as  a  whole,  surpasses  them  all, 
even  Cruickshank,  and  seats  himself  next, 
though  below,  William  Hogarth.  Well 
might  Thackeray,  in  his  delightful  notice 
of  his  friend  and  fellow-Carthusian  in  The 
Quarterly,  say,  "  There  is  no  blinking  the 
fact,  that  in  Mr.  Punch's  Cabinet  John  Leech 


JOHN    LEECH.  19 

is  the  right-hand  man.  Fancy  a  number  of 
Punch  without  Leech's  picture  I  What  would 
you  give  for  it  1 "  This  was  said  ten  years 
ago.  How  much  more  true  it  is  now  !  "We 
don't  need  to  fannj  it  any  longer.  And  yet, 
doubtless,  Nature  is  already  preparing  some 
one  else  —  she  is  forever  filling  her  horn  — 
whom  we  shall  never  think  better,  or  in  his 
own  way,  half  so  good,  but  who  like  him 
will  be,  let  us  trust,  new  and  true,  modest 
and  good  ;  let  us,  meanwhile,  rest  and  be 
thankful,  and  look  back  on  the  past.  We'll 
move  on  by  and  by,  "to  fresh  fields  and  pas- 
tures new,"  we  suppose,  and  hope. 

We  are  not  going  to  give  a  biography,  or  a 
studied  appraisement  of  this  great  artist, — 
that  has  been  already  well  done  in  the  Corn- 
hill,  —  and  we  trust  the  mighty  "  J.  0.,"'  who 
knew  him  and  loved  him  as  a  brother,  and 
whose  strong  and  fine  hand  —  its  truth, 
nicety,  and  power  —  we  think  we  recognize 


20  JOHN    LEECH. 

ill  an  admirable  short  notice  of  Leech  as  one 
of  the  "  Men  of  Mark,"  in  the  London  Review 
of  May  31,  1862,  —  may  employ  his  leisure 
in  giving  us  a  memorial  of  his  friend.  No 
one  could  do  it  better,  not  ev»n  the  judicious 
Tom  Taylor,  and  it  is  worth  his  while  to  go 
down  the  great  stream  side  by  side  with  such 
a  man.  All  that  we  shall  now  do  is  to  give 
some  particulars,  not,  so  far  as  we  know, 
given  to  the  public,  and  end  with  a  few 
selected  woodcuts  from  Punch,  —  illustrative 
of  his  various  moods  and  gifts,  —  for  which 
we  are  indebted  to  the  kindness  of  Messrs. 
Bradbury  and  Evans,  —  two  men  to  whom 
and  to  whose  noble  generosity  and  enterprise 
Ave  owe  it  that  Punch  is  what  he  is  ;  men 
who  have  made  their  relation  to  him  and  to 
his  staff  of  writers  and  artists  a  labor  of  love  ; 
dealing  in  everything,  from  the  quality  of 
the  paper  up  to  the  genius,  with  truly  disin- 
terested liberality  ;  and  who,  to  give  only  one 


JOHN    LEECH.  21 

instance,  must  have  given  Mr.  Leech,  dur- 
ing his  twenty-three  years^  connection  with 
them,  upwards  of  £40,000,  —  money  richly 
deserved,  and  well  won,  for  no  money  could 
pay  in  full  what  he  Avas  to  them  and  to  us  ; 
but  still  not  the  less  honorable  to  them  than 
to  him.* 

*  When  the  history  of  the  rise  and  progress  of 
Punch  comes  to  be  written,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  Weekly  Dinner  has  been  one  of  the  chief  things 
which  contributed  to  its  success.  Almost  from  the 
foundation  of  that  journal  it  has  been  the  habit  of 
the  contributors  every  Wednesday  to  dine  together. 
In  the  winter  months,  the  dinner  is  usually  held  in 
the  front  room  of  the  first  floor  of  No.  11  Bouverie 
Street,  Whitefriars,  —  the  business  offices  of  the 
proprietors,  Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans.  Some- 
times these  dinners  are  held  at  the  Bedford  Hotel, 
Covent  Garden.  During  the  summer  months,  it  is 
customary  to  have  ten  or  twelve  dinners  at  places 
in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  Greenwich,  Rich- 
mond,   Blackwall,    etc.      And   once  a   year  they 


22  JOHN    LEECH. 

John  Leech,  we  believe  remotely  of  Irish 
extraction,   was  a  thoroughly  London  hoy, 

attend  the  annual  dinner  of  the  firm,  at  Avhich 
compositors,  readers,  printers,  machinemen,  clerks, 
etc.,  dine.  This  dinner  is  called  the  "Way  Goose," 
and  is  often  referred  to  in  Punch. 

At  the  weekly  dinner  the  contents  of  the  forth- 
coming number  of  Punch  are  discussed.  When 
the  cloth  is  removed,  and  dessert  is  laid  on  the 
table,  the  first  question  put  by  the  editor  is, 
' '  What  shall  the  Cartoon  be  ? " 

Du]-iiig  the  lifetimes  of  Jerrold  and  Tliackeray, 
the  discussions  after  dinner  ran  very  high,  owing  to 
the  constitutional  antipathy  existing  between  these 
two,  Jerrold  being  the  oldest,  as  well  as  the  noisi- 
est, generally  came  off  victorious.  In  these  rows 
it  required  all  the  suavity  of  Mark  Lemon  (and  he 
lias  a  great  deal  of  that  quality)  to  calm  the  storm  ; 
his  award  always  being  final. 

The  tliird  edition  of  Wednesday's  Sun  is  gener- 
ally brought  in  to  give  the  latest  intelligence,  so  as 
t-o  bring  the  Cartoon  down  to  the  latest  date.     On 


JOHN    LEECH.  23 

though  never  one  whit  of  a  Cockney  in  na- 
ture or  look.     He  was  Lorn  in  1817,  being 

the  Thursday  morning  following,  the  editor  calls  at 
the  houses  of  the  artists  to  see  what  is  being  done. 
On  Friday  night  all  copy  is  delivered  and  put  into 
type,  and  at  two  o'clock  on  Saturday  proofs  are 
revised,  the  forms  made  up,  and  with  the  last 
movement  of  the  engine,  the  whole  of  the  type  is 
jjlaced  under  the  press,  which  cannot  be  moved 
iintil  the  Monday  morning,  when  the  steam  is  again 
up.  This  precaution  is  taken  to  prevent  waggish 
tricks  on  the  part  of  practical  joking  compositors. 

At  these  dinners  none  but  those  connected  Avith 
the  staff  proper  are  permitted  to  attend  ;  the  only 
occasional  exceptions,  we  believe,  have  been  Sir 
Joseph  Paxtou,  Mr.  Layard,  the  present  Foreign 
Under-Secretary,  Charles  Dickens,  and  Charles 
Dickens,  junior.  As  an  illustration  of  the  benefit 
arising  from  tliese  meetings,  we  may  mention  that 
Jerrold  always  use  to  say,  "  It  is  no  use  any  of  us 
quarrelling,  because  next  Wednesday  must  come 
round  with  its  dinner,  Avhen  we  will  all  have  to 


24  JOHN    LEECH. 

thus  six  years  j^ounger  than  Thackeray,  both 
of  them  Charterhouse  boys.  We  rejoice  to 
learn  that  Lord  Russell  has,  in  the  kindest 
way,  given  to  Mr.  Leech's  eldest  boy  a  pres- 
entation to  this  famous  school,  where  the 
best  men  of  London  birth  have  so  long  had 
their  training,  as  Brougham  and  Jeffrey, 
Scott  and  Cockburn,  had  at  the  Edinburgh 
High  School.  This  gift  of  our  Foreign  Min- 
ister is  twice  blessed,  and  is  an  act  the  coun- 
try may  well  thank  him  for. 

When  between  six  and  seven  years  of  age, 
some  of  Leech's  drawings  were  seen  by  the 
great  Flaxman,  and,  after  carefully  looking 
at  them  and  the  boy,  he  said,  "That  boy 

shake  hands  again."  By  means  of  these  meetings, 
the  discussions  arising  on  all  questions  helped  both 
caricaturist  and  wit  to  take  a  broad  view  of  things, 
as  well  as  enabled  the  editor  to  get  his  team  to 
di-aw  well  together,  and  give  a  uniformity  of  tone 
to  all  the  contributions. 


JOHN    LEECH.  25 

must  be  an  artist  ;  he  will  be  nothing  else  or 
less."  This  was  said  in  full  consciousness 
of  what  is  involved  in  advising  such  a  step. 
His  father  wisely,  doubtless,  thought  other- 
vrise,  and  put  him  to  the  medical  profession 
at  St.  Bartholomew's,  under  Mr.  Stanley. 
He  was  very  near  being  sent  to  Edinburgh, 
and  apprenticed  to  Sir  George  Ballingall. 
If  he  had  come  to  us  then,  he  Avould  have 
found  one  student,  since  famous,  with  whom 
he  would  have  cordialized,  —  Edward,  after- 
wards Professor  Forbes,  who  to  his  other 
great  gifts  added  that  of  drawing,  especially 
of  all  sorts  of  wild,  fanciful,  elfish  pleasan- 
tries and  freaks,  most  original  and  ethereal, 
and  the  specimens  of  which,  in  their  many 
strange  resting-places,  it  would  be  worth  the 
while  to  reproduce  in  a  volume.  Leech  soon 
became  known  among  his  fellow-students  for 
his  lifelike,  keen,  but  always  good-natured 
caricatures  :    he  was  forever  drawing.     He 


26  JOHN    LEECH. 

never  had  any  regular  art-lessons,  but  his 
medical  studies  furnished  him  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  structure  and  proportions  of  the 
human  form,  which  gives  such  reality  to  his 
drawing  ;  and  he  never  parades  his  knowl- 
edge, or  is  its  slave  ;  he  values  expression 
ever  above  mere  form,  never  falsifying,  but 
often  neglecting,  or  rather  subordinating,  the 
latter  to  the  former.  This  intense  realism 
and  insight,  this  pure  intense  power  of  ob- 
servation it  is  that  makes  the  Greek  sculp- 
tors so  infinitely  above  the  Roman. 

We  believe  the  Greeks  knew  nothing  of 
what  was  under  the  skin,  —  it  was  considered 
profane  to  open  the  human  body  and  dissect 
it  ;  but  they  studied  form  and  action  with 
that  keen,  sure,  unforgetting,  loving  eye,  that 
purely  realistic  faculty,  which  probably  they, 
as  a  race,  had  in  more  exquisite  perfection 
than  any  other  people  before  or  since.  Ob- 
jective truth  they  read,  and  could  repeat  as 


JOHX    LEECH.  27 

li'om  a  book.  The  Romans,  Avith  tlieir  hardy, 
penetrating,  audacious  natme,  —  rerum  Do- 
mini,—  wanted  to  know  not  only  what  ap- 
pears, but  what  is,  and  what  makes  appear. 
They  had  no  misgivings  or  shyness  at  cutting 
into  and  laying  bare  their  dead  fellows,  as 
little  as  they  had  in  killing  them  or  being 
themselves  killed  ;  and  as  so  often  happens, 
their  strength  Avas  their  weakness,  their  pride 
their  fall.  They  must  needs  show  off  their 
knowledge  and  their  muscles,  and  therefore 
they  made  their  statues  as  if  without  skin, 
and  put  on  as  violent  and  often  impossible 
action  as  ever  did  Buonarotti.  Compare  the 
LaocGon  and  his  boys  (small  men,  rather) 
with  the  Elgin  marbles  ;  the  riders  on  the 
frieze  so  comely  in  their  going,  so  lissome  ; 
their  skin  slipping  sweetly  over  their  mus- 
cles ;  their  modestly  representing,  not  of 
what  they  know,  but  of  what  they  see. 
In  John  Leech  and  Tenniel  you  see  some- 


28 


JOHN    LEECH. 


thing  of  the  same  contrast :  the  one  knows 
more  than  he  needs,  and  shows  it  accord- 
ingly ;  the  other  knowing  by  instinct,  or  from 
good  sense,  that  drawing  has  only  to  do  with 
appearances,  with  things  that  may  be  seen, 
not  with  things  that  may  be  known,  drew 
merely  what  he  saw  ;  but  then  with  what 
an  inevitable,  concentrated  eye  and  hand  he 
did  draw^  that  !  This  made  him  so  pre-emi- 
nent in  reproducing  the  expression  of  action, 
—  esi3ecially  intense  and  rapid  action.  No 
knowledge  of  what  muscles  were  acting,  and 
what  are  their  attachments,  etc.,  could  teach 
a  man  how  a  horse  trots,  or  how  he  gathers 
himself  up  to  leap,  or  how  a  broken-backed 
cab-horse  wouhl  lie  and  look,  or  even  how 
Mr.  Briggs  —  excellent  soul  —  w^hen  return- 
ing home,  gently,  and  coj^iously  ebriose  from 
Epsom  on  his  donkey,  would  sway  about  on 
his  podg}^  legs,  when  instructing  his  amazed 
and  ancient  groom  and  friend  as  to  putting 


JOHN    LEECH.  29 

up  and  rubbing  do^\'n  —  the  nmre.  But  ob- 
servation such  as  the  Greeks  had,  that  aicpt- 
/3f I'a,  or  accuracy,  —  carefulness,  as  they 
called  it,  —  enabled  Leech  to  do  all  this  to 
the  life. 

All  through  his  course,  more  and  more,  he 
fed  upon  Nature,  and  he  had  his  reward  in 
having  perpetually  at  hand  her  freshness, 
her  variety,  her  endlessness.  There  is  a 
pleasant  illustration  of  this  given  in  a  letter 
in  Xotes  and  Queries  for  November  5,  1864  : 
"  On  one  occasion  he  and  I  were  riding  to 
town  in  an  omnibus,  when  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, in  a  very  peculiar  dress,  and  with  very 
marked  features,  stepped  into  the  vehicle, 
and  sat  down  immediately  in  front  of  us. 
He  stared  so  hard  and  made  such  wry  faces 
at  us,  that  /  could  hardly  refrain  from  laugh- 
ter. My  discomfiture  was  almost  completed 
when  Leech  suddenly  exclaimed,  'By  the 
way,   did    Prendergast  ever  show  you  that 


30  JOHN    LEECH. 

extraordinary  account  which  lias  been  lately 
forwarded  to  him  V  and,  producing  his  note- 
book, added,  'Just  run  your  eye  up  that 
column,  and  tell  me  what  you  can  make  of 
it.'  The  page  was  blank;  but  two  minutes 
afterwards  the  features  of  that  strange  old 
gentleman  gaping  at  us  were  reflected  with 
lifelike  fidelity  upon  it."  There  is  humor 
in  the  choice  of  the  word  "  Prendergast." 
This  is  the  true  way  to  nurse  invention,  to 
preen  and  let  grow  imagination's  wings,  on 
which  she  soars  I'orth  into  the  ideal,  "  sailing 
with  supreme  dominion  through  the  azure 
depths  of  air."  It  is  the  man  who  takes  in 
who  can  give  out.  The  man  who  does  not 
do  the  one,  soon  takes  to  spinning  his  own 
fancies  out  of  his  interior,  like  a  spider,  and 
he  snares  himself  at  last  as  well  as  his  victims. 
It  is  the  bee  that  makes  honey,  and  it  is  out 
of  the  eater  that  there  comes  forth  meat,  out 
of  the  strong  that  there  comes  forth  sweetness. 


JOHN    LEECH.  31 

In  the  letter  we  refer  to,  -whicli  is  well  worth 
reading,  there  is  a  good  remark,  that  Leech 
had  no  mere  minutice,  as  Turner  had  none  ; 
everything  was  subordinated  to  the  main 
jDurpose  he  had  ;  hut  he  had  exquisite  ^/incs^e 
and  delicacy  when  it  was  that  he  wanted. 
Look  at  his  drawing  of  our  '"  Jocund  Morn," 
from  the  Loots  to  the  swallows.  His  pencil- 
work  on  wood  Avas  marvellous  for  freedom 
and  loveliness. 

The  bent  of  his  genius  and  external  causes 
made  him,  when  about  seventeen,  give  up 
the  study  of  medicine  and  go  in  stoutly  and 
for  life  for  art.  His  diligence  vras  amazing, 
as  witnessed  by  the  list  we  give,  by  no  means 
perfect,  of  his  works  ;  in  Bentley  they  are  in 
multitudes  ;  and  in  Punch  alone,  up  to  1862, 
there  are  more  than  three  thousand  separate 
drawings  I  with  hardly  the  vestige  of  a  repe- 
tition ;  it  may  be  the  same  tune,  but  it  is  a 
new  variation.     In  nothing  is  his  realistic 


32  JOHN    LEECH. 

power  more  seen  than  in  those  delightful  rec- 
ords of  his  own  holidays  in  Punch.  A  geol- 
ogist will  tell  you  the  exact  structure  of  that 
rock  in  the  Tay  at  Campsie  Linn,  where  Mr. 
Briggs  is  carrying  out  that  huge  salmon  in 
his  arms,  tenderly  and  safely,  as  if  it  were 
his  first-born.  All  his  seascapes,  —  Scarbor- 
ough, Folkestone,  Biarritz,  etc.,  etc.,  —  any 
one  who  has  been  there  does  not  need  to  be 
told  their  names,  and,  as  we  have  already 
said,  his  men  are  as  native  as  his  rocks,  his 
bathers  at  Boulogne  and  Biarritz,  his  game- 
keepers and  gillies  in  Blair- Athole  and  Loch- 
aber,  —  you  have  seen  them  there,  the  very 
men  ;  Duncan  Koy  is  one  of  them  ;  and 
those  men  and  women  at  Galway,  in  the 
Claddich,  they  are  liker  than  themselves, 
more  Irish  than  the  Irish.  In  this  respect 
his  foreigners  are  wonderful,  one  of  the  rarest 
artistic  achievements.  Thackeray  also  could 
draw  a  foreigner,  —  as  witness  that  dreary 


JOHN    LEECH.  33 

woman  outworker  in  the  Kickleburys.  Mr. 
Frith  can't.  Then  as  to  dress  ;  this  was  one 
of  the  things  Leech  very  early  mastered  and 
knew  the  meaning  and  power  of  ;  and  it  is 
worth  mastering,  for  in  it,  the  dress,  is  much 
of  the  man,  both  given  and  received.  To 
see  this,  look  at  almost  his  first  large  drawing 
in  Punchy  two  months  after  it  started,  called 
"  Foreign  Affairs."  Look,  too,  at  what  is  still 
one  of  his  richest  works,  ^\ith  all  the  fervor 
and  abundance,  the  very  dew  of  his  youth,  — 
the  Comic  Latin  Grammar.  Look  at  the 
dress  of  Menelaus,  who  threatens  to  give 
poor  Helen,  his  wife,  '•'  a  good  hiding."  Look 
at  his  droll  etchings  and  woodcuts  for  the 
otherwise  tiresomely  brilliant  Comic  Histo- 
ries, by  Gilbert  A'Beckett,  with  their  too 
much  puns. 

Leech  was  singularly  modest,  both  as  a 
man  and  as  an  artist.  This  came  by  nature, 
and  was  indicative  of  the  harmony  and  sweet- 


34  JOHX    LEECH. 

iiess  of  his  essence  ;  but  doubtless  the  per- 
petual going  to  Nature,  and  drawing  out  of 
her  fulness,  kept  him  humble,  as  well  as 
made  him  rich,  made  him,  what  every  man 
of  sense  and  power  must  be,  conscious  of  his 
own  strength  ;  but  before  the  great  mother 
he  was  simple  and  loving,  attentive  to  her 
lessons,  as  a  child,  forever  learning  and  doing. 
This  honesty  and  modesty  Avere  curiously 
brought  out  when  he  was,  after  much  per- 
suasion, induced  to  make  the  colored  draw- 
ings for  that  exhibition  which  was  such  a 
splendid  success,  bringing  in  nearly  £  5,000. 
Nothing  could  induce  him  to  do  what  was 
wanted,  call  them  imintings.  "  They  are 
mere  sketches,"  he  said,  "  and  very  crude 
sketches  too,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  be  made 
a  laughing-stock  by  calling  them  what  thev 
are  not."  Here  was  at  once  modesty  and 
honest  pride,  or  rather  that  truthfulness 
which  lay  at  the  root  of  his  character,  and 


JOHN    LEECH.  35 

was  also  its  "  bright,  consummate  flower "  ; 
and  he  went  further  than  this,  in  having 
printed  in  the  Catalogue  the  following  words  : 
"  These  sketches  have  no  claim  to  be  regarded 
or  tested  as  finished  pictures.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  any  one  to  know  the  fact  better  than 
I  do.  They  have  no  pretensions  to  a  higher 
name  than  that  I  have  given  them,  — 
Sketches  in  Oil."' 

We  have  had,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  John 
Heugh,  their  possessor,  the  privilege  of  hav- 
ing beside  us  for  some  time  two  of  the  best 
of  those  colored  sketches,  and  we  feel  at  once 
the  candor  and  accuracy  of  their  authoi-'s 
title.  It  is  quite  touching  the  unaccus- 
tomedness,  the  boyish,  anxious,  laborious 
workmanship  of  the  practised  hand  that  had 
done  so  much,  so  rapidly  and  perfectly  in 
another  style.  They  do  not  make  us  regret 
much  that  he  did  not  earlier  devote  himself 
to  painting  proper,  because  then  what  would 


36  JOHN    LEECH. 

have  become  of  these  three  thousand  cues 
in  Punch  ?-  But  he  shows,  especially,  true 
powers  of  landscape  painting,  a  pure  and 
deep  sense  of  distance,  translucency,  and 
color,  and  the  power  of  gleams  and  shadows 
on  water.  His  girls  are  lovelier  without 
color,  —  have,  indeed,  "  to  the  eye  and  pros- 
pect of  the  soul,"  a  more  exquisite  bloom, 
the  bloom  within  the  skin,  the  brightness  in 
the  dark  eye,  all  more  expressed  than  in 
those  actually  colored.  So  it  often  is  ;  give 
enough  to  set  the  looker-on  a-painting,  im- 
agining, realizing,  bringing  np  "  the  shows  of 
things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind,"  and  no 
one  but  the  highest  painter  can  paint  like 
that.  This  is  the  true  office  of  the  masters 
of  all  the  ideal  arts,  to  evoke,  as  did  the  ris- 
ing sun  on  Memnon,  the  sleeping  beauty  and 
music  and  melody  of  another's  sou],  to  make 
every  reader  a  poet,  every  onlooker  an  artist, 
every  listener  eloquent  and  tuneful,  so  be  it 


JOHN    LEECH.  37 

that  they  have  the  seeing  eye,  the  hearing 
ear,  the  loving  and  understanding  heart. 

As  is  well  known,  this  exhibition  took 
London  captive.  It  was  the  most  extraordi- 
nary record,  by  drawing,  of  the  manners  and 
customs  and  dress  of  a  people  ever  produced. 
It  was  full  "  from  morn  to  dewy  eve,"  and  as 
full  of  mirth  ;  at  times  this  made  it  like 
a  theatre  convulsed  as  one  man  by  the  vis 
comica  of  one  man.  The  laughter  of  special, 
often  family  groups,  broke  out  opposite  each 
dran'ing,  spread  contagiously  effervescing 
throughout,  lulling  and  waxing  again  and 
again  like  waves  of  the  sea.  From  his  re- 
serve, pride,  and  nicety,  Leech  could  never 
be  got  to  go  when  any  one  was  in  the  room  ; 
he  had  an  especial  horror  of  being  what  he 
called  '•  caught  and  talked  at  by  enthusiastic 
people."  It  is  worth  mentioning  here,  as  it 
shows  his  true  literary  turn  as  a  humorist, 
and  adds  greatly  to  the  completeness  of  his 


38  JOHN    LEECH. 

drawings  and  of  his  genius,  that  all  the 
funny,  witty,  and  often  most  felicitous  titles 
and  wordings  of  all  sorts  were  written  by  him- 
self;  he  was  most  particular  about  this. 

One  day  a  sporting  nobleman  visited  the 
gallery  with  his  huntsman,  whose  naive 
and  knowing  criticisms  greatly  amused  his 
master.  At  last,  coming  to  one  of  the 
favorite  hunting  pictures,  he  said,  "  Ah  !  my 
Lord,  nothing  but  a  party  as  knows  'osses 
cud  have  draw'd  them  ere  'unters."  The 
origin  and  means  of  these  sketches  in  oil  is 
curious.  Mr.  Leech  had  often  been  asked  to 
undertake  works  of  this  character,  but  he 
had  for  so  many  years  been  accustomed  to 
draw  with  the  pencil,  and  that  only  on  small 
blocks,  that  he  had  little  confidence  in  bis 
ability  to  draw  on  a  large  scale.  The  idea 
originated  with  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  his  friend 
and  colleague,  who  saw  that  by  a  new  inven- 
tion —  a  beautiful  piece  of  machinery  —  the 


JOHN    LEECH.  39 

impression,  of  a  block  in  Punch,  being  first 
taken  on  a  sheet  of  india-rubber,  was  en- 
larged ;  when,  by  a  lithograj)hic  process,  the 
copy  thus  got  could  be  transferred  to  the 
stone,  and  impressions  printed  upon  a  largo 
sheet  of  canvas.  Having  thus  obtained  an 
outline  groundwork  consisting  of  his  own 
lines  enlarged  some  eight  times  the  area  of 
the  original  block,  Leech  proceeded  to  color 
these.  His  knowledge  of  the  manipulation 
of  oil-colors  was  very  slight,  and  it  was 
under  the  guidance  of  his  friend,  John 
Everett  ^lillais,  that  his  first  attempts  were 
made,  and  crude  enough  they  were.  He 
used  a  kind  of  transparent  color  which 
allowed  the  coarse  lines  of  the  enlargement 
to  show  through,  so  that  the  production  pre- 
sented the  appearance  of  indifferent  litho- 
graphs, slightly  tinted.  In  a  short  time, 
however,  he  obtained  great  mastery  over  oil- 
color,  and  instead  of  allowing  the  thick  fatty 


40  JOHN    LEECH. 

lines  of  printers'  ink  to  remain  on  the  can- 
vas, he,  by  the  use  of  turpentine,  removed 
the  ink,  particularly  with  regard  to  the  lines 
of  the  face  and  figure.  These  he  redrew  with 
his  own  hand  in  a  fine  and  delicate  manner. 
To  this  he  added  a  delicacy  of  finish,  partic- 
ularly in  flesh-color,  which  greatly  enhanced 
the  value  and  beauty  of  his  later  works. 
To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  sketches, 
we  may  mention,  for  illustration  of  these 
remarks,  No.  65  in  the  Catalogue.  This 
work  presents  all  the  incompleteness  and 
crudity  of  his  early  style.  The  picture  rep- 
resents Piscator  seated  on  a  wooden  fence 
on  a  raw  morning  in  a  pelting  shower  of 
rain,  the  lines  necessary  to  give  the  effect  of 
a  leaden  atmosphere  being  very  numerous 
and  close.  The  works  %vhich  illustrated  his 
later  style  are  best  shown  in  Nos.  36  and 
41.  In  the  framing  of  these  sketches  he  per- 
sisted in  leaving  a  margin  of  white  canvas, 


JOHN    LEECH.  41 

somewhat  after  the  manner  of  water-color 
sketches. 

Of  all  art  satirists  none  have  such  a  per- 
vading sense  and.  power  of  girlish  and  ripe 
womanly  beauty  as  Leech.  Hogarth  alone, 
as  in  his  Poor  Poet's  Wife,  comes  near  him. 
There  is  a  genuine  domesticity  about  his 
scenes  that  could  come  only  from  a  man 
who  was  much  at  his  owii  fireside,  and  in 
the  nui-seiy  when  baby  was  washed.  You 
see  he  is  himself  paterfamilias,  with  no  Bo- 
hemian taint  or  raffish  turn.  What  he 
draws  he  has  seen.  What  he  asks  you  to 
live  in  and  laugh  at  and  vni\\,  he  has 
laughed  at  and  lived  in.  It  is  this  whole- 
someness,  and,  to  use  the  right  word,  this 
goodness,  that  makes  Leech  more  than  a 
drawer  of  funny  pictures,  more  even  than  a 
great  artist.^     It  makes  him  a  teacher  and 

*  It  is  honorable  to  the  regular  art  of  this 
fountry  that  many  of  its  best  men  early  recognized 


42  JOHN    LEECH. 

ail  example  of  virtue  in  its  Avidest  sense, 
from  that  of  manliness  to  the  sweet  devotion 
of  woman,  and  the  loving,  open  mouth  and 
eyes  of  'parvula  on  your  knee.  '  How  differ- 
ent is  the  same  class  of  art  in  France  !  you 
dare  not  let  your  wife  or  girls  see  their 
Leech  ;  he  is  not  for  our  virgins  and  boys. 
Hear  what  Thackeray  says  on  this  point :  — 
"  Now,  while  Mr.  Leech  has  been  making 
his  comments  upon  our  society  and  manners, 
one  of  the  -wittiest  and  keenest  observers  has 
been  giving  a  description  of  his  own  country 
of  France,  in  a  thousand  brilliant  pages  ; 
and  it  is  a  task  not  a  little  amusing  and 
curious  for  a  student  of  manners  to  note  the 

in  Leech  a  true  brother.  Millais  and  Ehriore  and 
others  were  his  constant  friends ;  and  we  know 
that  more  than  twelve  years  ago  Mr.  Harvey,  now 
the  perspicacious  Presideiit  of  the  Koyal  Scottish 
Academy,  wished  to  make  Leech  and  Thackeray 
honorary  members  of  that  body. 


JOHN    LEECH.  43 

difference  between  the  two  satirists,  —  per- 
haps between  the  societies  which  they  de- 
scribe. Leech's  Enghmd  is  a  country  peo- 
pled by  noble  elderly  squires,  riding  large- 
boned  horses,  followed  across  country  by  love- 
ly beings  of  the  most  gorgeous  proportions, 
by  respectful  retainers,  by  gallant  little  boys 
emulating  the  courage  and  pluck  of  the 
sire.  The  joke  is  the  precocious  courage 
of  the  child,  his  gallantry  as  he  charges  at 
his  fences,  his  coolness  as  he  eyes  the  glass 
of  port  or  tells  grandpapa  that  he  likes 
his  champagne  dry.  How  does  Gavarni 
represent  the  family-fotber,  the  sire,  the 
old  gentleman  in  his  country,  the  civilized 
country  ?  Paterfamilias,  in  a  dyed  wig  and 
whiskers,  is  leering  by  the  side  of  Mademoi- 
selle Coralie  on  her  sofa  in  the  Rue  de 
Breda  ;  Paterfamilias,  with  a  mask  and  a 
nose  half  a  yard  long,  is  hobbling  after  her 
at  the  ball.     The  enfant  terrible  is  making 


44  JOHX    LEECH. 

Papa  and  Mamma  alike  ridiculous  by  show- 
ing us  Mamma's  lover,  who  is  lurking  behind 
the  screen.  A  thousand  volumes  are  written 
protesting  against  the  seventh  command- 
ment. The  old  man  is  forever  hunting  after 
the  young  woman,  the  wife  is  forever  cheat- 
ing the  husband.  The  fun  of  the  old  comedy 
never  seems  to  end  in  France  ;  and  we  have 
the  word  of  their  own  satirists,  novelists, 
painters  of  society,  that  it  is  being  played 
from  day  to  day. 

"  In  the  works  of  that  barbarian  artist 
Hogarth,  the  subject  which  affords  such 
playful  sport  to  the  civilized  Frenchman  is 
stigmatized  as  a  fearful  crime,  and  is  visited 
by  a  ghastly  retribution.  The  English  sav- 
age never  thinks  of  such  a  crime  as  funny, 
and,  a  hundred  years  after  Hogarth,  our 
modern  'painter  of  mankind,'  still  retains 
his  barbarous  modesty,  is  tender  with  chil- 
dren, decorous  before  women,  has  never  once 


JOHN    LEECH.  45 

thought  that  he  had  a  right  or  calling  to 
wound  the  modesty  of  either. 

"  Mr.  Leech  surveys  society  from  the  gen- 
tleman's point  of  view.  In  old  days,  when 
Mr.  Jerrold  lived  and  wrote  for  that  cele- 
brated periodical,  he  took  the  other  side  :  he 
looked  up  at  the  rich  and  great  with  a  fierce, 
sarcastic  aspect,  and  a  threatening  posture  ; 
and  his  outcry  or  challenge  was  :  '  Ye  rich 
and  great,  look  out  !  AYe,  the  people,  are  as 
good  as  you.  Have  a  care,  ye  priests,  wal- 
lowing on  the  tithe  pig,  and  rolling  in  car- 
riages and  four  ;  ye  landlords  grinding  the 
poor  ;  ye  vulgar  fine  ladies  bullying  innocent 
governesses,  and  what  not,  —  we  will  expose 
your  vulgarity,  we  will  put  down  your  op- 
pression, we  will  vindicate  the  nobility  of 
our  common  nature,'  and  so  forth.  A  great 
deal  is  to  be  said  on  the  Jerrold  side  ;  a 
great  deal  was  said  ;  perhaps  even  a  great 
deal  too  much.     It  is  not  a  little  curious 


46  JOHX    LEECH. 

to  speculate  upon  the  works  of  these  two 
famous  contributors  of  Punch,  these  two 
'  preachers/  as  the  phrase  is.  '  Woe  to  you, 
you  tyrant  and  heartless  oppressor  of  the 
}ioor  ! '  calls  out  Jerrold  as  Dives's  carriage 
rolls  by.  '  Beware  of  the  time  when  your 
bloated  coachman  shall  be  hurled  from  his 
box,  when  your  gilded  flunky  shall  be  cast 
to  the  earth  from  his  perch,  and  your  pam- 
pered horses  shall  run  away  with  you  and 
your  vulgar  wife,  and  smash  you  into  ruin. 
The  other  philosopher  looks  at  Dives  and  his 
cavalcade  in  his  own  peculiar  manner.  He 
admires  the  horses,  and  copies  with  the  most 
curious  felicity  their  form  and  action.  The 
footman's  calves  and  powder,  the  coachman's 
red  face  and  floss  wig,  the  over-dressed  lady 
and  plethoric  gentleman  in  the  carriage,  he 
depicts  with  the  happiest  strokes  ;  and  if 
there  is  a  pretty  girl  and  a  rosy  child  on  the 
back  seat,  he  '  takes  them  up  tenderly '  and 


JOHN    LEECH.  47 

touches  them  with  a  hand  that  has  a  caress 
in  it.  This  artist  is  very  tender  towards  all 
the  little  people.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether 
he  loves  boys  or  girls  most,  —  those  delight- 
ful little  men  on  their  ponies  in  the  hunt- 
ing-fields, those  charming  little  Lady  Adas 
flirting  at  the  juvenile  ball  ;  or  Tom  the 
butcher's  boy,  on  the  slide  ;  or  ragged  little 
Emly  pulling  the  go-cart  freighted  with 
Elizarann  and  her  doll.  Steele,  Fielding, 
Goldsmith,  Dickens,  are  similarly  tender  in 
their    pictures   of    children.     '  We   may  be 

barbarians,   IMonsieur  ;   but   even  the 

savages  are  occasionally  kind  to  their  pap- 
pooses.'  "When  are  the  holidays  ?  Mothers 
of  families  ought  to  come  to  this  exhibition 
and  bring  the  children.  Then  there  are  the 
full-grown  young  ladies  —  the  very  full- 
grown  young  ladies — dancing  in  the  ball- 
room, or  reposing  by  the  sea-shore  ;  the  men 
can  peep  at  w^hole  seraglios  of  these  beauties 


48  JOHN    LEECH. 

for  the  moderate  charge  of  one  shilling,  and 
bring  away  their  charming  likenesses  in  the 
illustrated  catalogue  (two-and-six).  In  the 
'  Mermaids'  Haunt,'  for  example,  there  is  a 
siren  combing  her  golden  locks,  and  anothar 
dark-eyed  witch  actually  sketching  you  as 
you  look  at  her,  whom  Ulysses  could  not 
resist.  To  Avalk  by  the  side  of  the  much- 
sounding  sea,  and  come  upon  such  a  bevy 
of  beauties  as  this,  what  bliss  for  a  man  or 
a  painter  !  The  mermaids  in  that  hannt, 
haunt  the  beholder  for  hours  after.  Where 
is  the  shore  on  which  those  creatures  were 
sketched  ?  The  sly  catalogue  does  not  tell  ns. 
"  The  outdoor  sketcher  will  not  fail  to  re- 
mark the  excellent  fidelity  with  which  Mr. 
Leech  draws  the  backgrounds  of  his  little 
pictures.  The  homely  landscape,  the  sea, 
the  winter  wood  by  which  the  huntsmen 
ride,  the  light  and  clouds,  the  birds  float- 
ing overhead,  are  indicated  by  a  few  strokes 


JOHN    LEECH.  49 

which  show  the  artist's  untiring  watchfulness 
and  love  of  nature.  He  is  a  natural  truth- 
teller,  and  indulges  in  no  flights  of  fancy,  as 
Hogarth  was  before  him.  He  speaks  his  mind 
out  quite  honestly,  like  a  thorough  Briton. 
He  loves  horses,  dogs,  river  and  field  sports. 
He  loves  home  and  children,  that  you  can 
see.  He  holds  Frenchmen  in  light  esteem. 
A  bloated  '  Mosoo '  walking  Leicester  Square, 
with  a  huge  cigar  and  a  little  hat,  with  '  bil- 
lard  '  and  '  estaminet '  written  on  his  flaccid 
face,  is  a  favorite  study  with  him  ;  the  un- 
shaven jowl,  the  waist  tied  with  a  string,  the 
boots  which  pad  the  Quadrant  pavement, 
this  dingy  and  disreputable  being  exercises  a 
fascination  over  Mr.  Punch's  favorite  artist. 
"We  trace,  too,  in  his  works  a  prejudice  against 
the  Hebrew  nation,  against  the  natives  of  an 
island  much  celebrated  for  its  verdure  and 
its  A\Tongs  ;  these  are  lamentable  prejudices 
indeed,  but  what  man  is  without  his  own  1 


50  JOHN    LEECH. 

No  man  has  ever  depicted  the  little  '  Snob  * 
with  such  a  delightful  touch.  Leech  fondles 
and  dandles  this  creature  as  he  does  the  chil- 
dren. To  remember  one  or  two  of  those  dear 
gents  is  to  laugh.  To  watch  them  looking  at 
their  o\vn  portraits  in  this  pleasant  gallery 
will  be  no  small  part  of  the  exhibition  ;  and 
as  we  can  all  go  and  see  our  neighbors  carica- 
tured here,  it  is  just  possible  that  our  neigh- 
bors may  find  some  smart  likenesses  of  their 
neighbors  in  these  brilliant,  lifelike,  good-na- 
tured sketches  in  oil."  —  Times,  June  21, 1862. 
We  could  not  resist  giving  this  long  extract. 
What  perfection  of  thought  and  word  !.  It 
is,  alas  !  a  draught  of  a  wine  we  can  no  more 
get  ;  the  vine  is  gone.  What  flavor  in  his 
"dear  prisoned  spirit  of  the  impassioned 
grape  "  !  What  a  bouquet !  Why  is  not  every- 
thing that  hand  ever  wrote  reproduced  ?  shall 
we  ever  again  be  regaled  with  such  ccnanthic 
acid  and  ether  ?  —  the  volatile  essences   by 


JOHX    LEECH.  51 

which  a  wine  is  itself  and  none  other,  —  its 
flower  and  Ijloom  ;  the  reason  why  Chamber- 
tin  is  not  Sherry,  and  Sauterne  neither.  Our 
scientific  friends  will  remember  that  these 
same  delicate  acids  and  oils  are  compounds 
of  the  lightest  of  all  bodies,  hydrogen,  and 
the  brightest  when  concentrated  in  the  dia- 
mond, carbon  ;  and  these  in  the  same  propor- 
tion as  sugar !  Moreover,  this  ethereal  oil 
and  acid  of  wine,  what  we  may  call  its  genius, 
never  exceeds  a  forty-thousandth  part  of  the 
wine  !  the  elevating  powers  of  the  fragrant 
Burgundies  are  supposed  to  be  more  due  to 
this  essence  than  to  its  amount  of  alcohol. 
Thackeray,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Charles  Lamb, 
old  Fuller,  Sydney  Smith,  Ruskin,  each  have 
the  felicity  of  a  specific  cenanthic  acid  and  oil, 
—  a  bouquet  of  his  own  ;  others'  wines  are 
fruity  or  dry  or  brandied,  or  "from  the  Cape," 
or  from  the  gooseberry,  as  the  case  may  be. 
For  common  household  use.  commend  us  to 


OZ  JOHN    LEECH. 

the  stout  home-brewed  from  the  Swift,  Defoe, 
Cobbet,  and  Southey  taps. 

Much  has  been  said  about  the  annoyance 
which  organ-grinding  caused  to  Leech,  but 
there  were  other  things  which  also  gave  him 
great  annoyance,  and  amongst  these  was  his 
grievance  against  the  wood-engravers. 

His  drawings  on  the  polished  and  chalked 
surface  of  the  wood-block  were  beautiful  to 
look  at.  Great  admiration  has  been  bestowed 
upon  the  delicacy  and  artistic  feeling  shown 
in  the  wood-blocks  as  they  appeared  in 
Punch ;  but  any  one  who  saw  these  exquisite 
little  gems  as  they  came  from  his  hands  would 
scarcely  recognize  the  same  things  when  they 
appeared  in  print  in  Punch.  When  he  had 
finished  one  of  his  blocks,  he  would  show  it 
to  his  friends  and  say,  "  Look  at  this,  and 
w^atch  for  its  appearance  in  Punch."  Some- 
times he  would  point  to  a  little  beauty  in  a 
landscape,  and  calling  particular  attention  to 


JOHX    LEECH.  53 

it,  would  say  that  probably  all  his  fine  little 
touches  would  be  "  cut  away,"  in  a  still  more 
literal  sense  than  that  in  which  he  uses  the 
word  in  his  address. 

When,  however,  we  come  to  consider  the 
circmnstances  and  pressure  under  which  these 
blocks  were  almost  always  engraved,  the  won- 
der will  be  that  they  were  so  perfect.  The 
blocks  upon  which  he  drew  were  composed 
of  small  sc^uares,  fastened  together  at  the 
back,  so  that  when  the  drawing  was  completed 
on  the  block,  it  was  unscrewed,  and  the  va- 
rious pieces  handed  over  to  a  number  of 
engravers,  each  having  a  square  inch  or  two 
of  landscape,  figure,  or  face,  as  the  case  might 
be,  not  knowing  what  proportion  of  light  and 
shade  each  piece  bore  to  the  whole. 

Had  these  blocks  b^en  carefully  and 
thoughtfully  engraved  /by  one  hand,  and 
then  been  printed  by  the  hand  instead  of  the 
steam  press,  we  might  have  seen  some  of  the 


54  JOHN    LEECH. 

finesse  and  beauty  which  the  dIa^viTlg  showed 
before  it  was  "  cut  away." 

There  was  nothing  that  was  so  great  a 
mark  of  the  gentleness  of  his  nature  as  his 
steady  abstinence  from  personality.  His  cor- 
respondence was  large,  and  a  perusal  of  it 
only  shows  how  careful  he  must  have  been, 
to  have  shunned  the  many  traps  that  were 
laid  for  him  to  make  him  a  partisan  in  per- 
sonal quarrels.  Some  of  the  most  wonderful 
suggestions  were  forwarded  to  him,  but  he 
had  a  most  keen  scent  for  everything  in  the 
.shape  of  personality. 

We  need  do  little  more  than  allude  to  the 
singular  purity  and  good  taste  manifested  in 
everything  he  drew  or  wrote.  We  do  not 
know  any  finer  instance  of  blamelessness  in 
art  or  literature,  such  perfect  delicacy  and 
cleanness  of  mind,  —  nothing  coarse,  nothing 
having  the  slightest  taint  of  indecency,  no 
double   entendre,  no   laughing  at  virtue,  no 


JOHN    LEECH.  55 

glorifying  or  glozing  of  vice,  —  nothing  to 
make  any  one  of  his  own  lovely  girls  blush, 
or  his  own  handsome  face  hide  itself.  This 
gentleness  and  thorough  gentlemanliness  per- 
vades all  his  works.  They  are  done  by  a 
man  you  would  take  into  your  family  and  to 
your  heart  at  once.  To  go  over  his  four  vol- 
umes of  Pictures  of  Life  and  Character  is  not 
only  a  wholesome  pleasure  and  diversion  ;  it 
is  a  liberal  education.  And  then  he  is  not 
the  least  of  a  soft  or  goody  man,  no  small 
sentimentalism  or  petit  mattre  work  :  he  is  a 
man  and  an  Englishman  to  the  backbone  ; 
who  rode  and  fished  as  if  that  were  his  chief 
business,  took  his  fences  fearlessly,  quietly, 
and  mercifully,  and  knew  how  to  run  his 
salmon  and  land  him.  He  was,  what  is 
better  still,  a  public-spirited  man  ;  a  keen, 
hearty,  earnest  politician,  with  strong  con- 
victions, a  Liberal  deserving  the  name.  His 
political  pencillings  are  as  full  of  good,  ener- 


5G  JOHN    LEECH. 

getic  politics  as  they  are  of  strong  portraiture 
arid  drawing.  He  is  almost  always  on  the 
right  side,  —  sometimes,  like  his  great  chief, 
Mr.  Punch,  not  on  the  popular  one. 

From  the  wonderful  fidelity  with  which  he 
rendered  the  cabmen  and  gamins  of  London, 
we  might  suppose  he  had  them  into  his  room 
to  sit  to  him  as  studies.  He  never  did  this  ; 
he  liked  actions  better  than  states.  He  was 
perpetually  taking  notes  of  all  he  saw  ;  but 
this  was  the  whole,  and  a  great  one.  With 
this,  and  with  his  own  vivid  memory  and 
bright  informing  spirit,  he  did  it  all.  One 
thing  we  may  be  pardoned  for  alluding  to 
as  illustrative  of  his  art.  His  wife,  who  was 
every  way  worthy  of  him,  and  without  whom 
he  was  scarce  ever  seen  at  any  place  of  pub- 
lic amusement,  was  very  beautiful  ;  and  the 
appearance  of  those  lovely  English  maidens 
we  all  so  delight  in,  with  their  short  fore- 
heads, arch  looks,  and  dark  laughing  eyes, 


JOHN    LEECH.  61 

sketches  in  Tlie  Times,  Leech  was  hugely  de- 
lighted, —  rejoiced  in  it  like  a  child,  and  said, 
'•  That  "s  like  putting  £1,000  in  my  pocket." 
With  all  the  temptations  he  had  to  Club  life, 
he  never  went  to  the  Garrick  to  spend  the 
evenings,  except  on  the  Saturdays,  which 
he  never  missed.  On  Sunday  afternoons,  in 
summer,  Thackeray  and  he  might  often  be 
seen  regaling  themselves  with  their  fellow- 
creatures  in  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  mak- 
ing their  o\xu  queer  observations,  to  which, 
doubtless,  we  are  indebted  for  our  baby  hip- 
popotamus and  many  another  four-footed 
joke.  He  never  would  go  to  houses  where 
he  knew  he  was  asked  only  to  be  seen  and 
trotted  out.  He  was  not  a  frequenter  of  Mrs. 
Leo  Huntei^s  at  homes. 

We  now  give  a  few  typical  woodcuts.  It 
is  impossible,  from  the  size  of  our  page,  to 
give  any  of  the  larger,  and  often  more  com- 


62  JOHN    LEECH. 

plete  and  dramatic  drawings.  We  hope  ours 
will  send  everybody  to  the  volumes  them- 
selves. There  should  immediately  be  made, 
so  long  as  it  is  possible,  a  complete  collection 
of  his  works  ;  and  a  noble  monument  to  in- 
dustry and  honest  work,  as  well  as  genius 
and  goodness,  it  would  be.  We  begin  with 
the  British  Lion  :  — 


-^ 


Tlie  State  of  the  Nation.  —  Disraeli  measuring  the  British 
Lion. 

This  is  from  a  large  Cartoon,  but  we  have 
only  space  for  the  British  Lion's  head.  He 
is  dressed  as  a  farm-laborer.     He  has  his  hat 


JOHN    LEECH.  63 

and  a  big  stick  in  his  hand,  and  his  tail  inno- 
cently draggling  under  his  smock-frock,  which 
has  the  usual  elaborate  needlework  displayed. 
Disraeli,  who  is  taking  his  measure  for  re- 
habilitating the  creature,  is  about  a  third 
shorter,  and  we  would  say  six  times  lighter. 
What  a  leonine  simpleton  I  What  a  vis- 
age I  How  much  is  in  it,  and  how  much 
not  1  Look  at  his  shirt-collar  and  chubby 
cheek !  What  hair  !  copious  and  rank  as  the 
son  of  ]Manoah's,  each  particular  hair  grow- 
ing straight  out  into  space,  and  taking  its 
own  noway  particular  way  ;  his  honest,  sim- 
ple eyes,  well  apart ;  his  snub,  infimtile  nose  ; 
his  long  upper  lip,  um^eclaimed  as  Xo-man's- 
land,  or  the  Libyan  desert,  unstubbed  as 
"  Thornaby  Waaste "  ;  his  mouth  closed, 
and  down  at  the  corner,  partly  from  stomach 
in  discontent  (Giles  is  always  dyspeptic), 
partly  from  contempt  of  the  same.  He  is 
submitting  to  be  measured  and  taken  ad  van- 


64  JOHN    LEECH. 

tage  of  behind  his  back  by  his  Semitic 
brother.  He  will  submit  to  this  and  much 
more,  but  not  to  more  than  that.  He  draws 
his  line  like  other  people,  when  it  occurs  to 
him  ;  and  he  keeps  his  line,  and  breaks  yours 
if  you  don't  look  to  it. 

He  may  be  kicked  over,  and  take  it  mildly, 
smiling,  it  may  be,  as  if  he  ought  somehow  to 
take  it  well,  though  appearances  are  against 
it.  You  may  even  knock  him  down,  and 
he  gets  up  red  and  flustered,  and  with  his 
hands  among  his  hair,  and  his  eyes  rounder 
and  brighter,  and  his  mouth  more  linear,  his 
one  leg  a  little  behind  the  other  ;  but  if  you 
hit  him  again,  calling  him  a  liar  or  a  coward, 
or  his  old  woman  no  better  than  she  should 
be,  then  he  means  mischief,  and  is  at  it  and 
you.  For  he  is  like  Judah,  a  true  lion's 
whelp.  Let  us  be  thankful  he  is  so  gentle,- 
and  can  be  so  fierce  and  stanch. 

Did  you  ever  see  such  a  wind  ?    How  it  is 


JOHN    LEECH.  67 

making  game  of  everj-thing  ;  how  everything 
scuds  I  Look  at  hLs  whiskers.  Look  at  the 
tail  of  his  descending  friend's  horse.  Look 
at  another's  precursory  "  Lincoln  and  Ben- 
nett "  bowling  along !  Look  at  his  horse's 
head,  —  the  jaded  but  game  old  mare  ;  the 
drawing  of  her  is  exquisite  ;  indeed,  there  is 
no  end  of  praising  his  horses.  They  are  all 
different,  and  a  dealer  could  t^ll  you  their 
ages  and  price,  possibly  their  pedigree. 

There  is  a  large  Avoodcut  in  the  Illustrated 
London  Xews  (any  one  who  has  it  should 
frame  it,  and  put  the  best  plate-glass  over 
it)  ;  it  is  called  "  Very  Polite.  The  party  on 
the  gray,  having  invited  some  strangers  to 
lunch,  shows  them  the  nearest  way  (by  half 
a  mile)  to  his  house."  The  "  party  "  is  a  big 
English  squire  —  sixteen  stone  at  least  — 
with  the  handsome,  insolent  face  of  many  of 
his  tribe,  and  the  nose  of  William  the  Con- 
queror.    He  has  put  the  gray  suddenly  and 


68  JOHN    LEECH. 

quite  close  to  a  hurdle-fence,  that  nobody 
hut  such  a  man  would  face,  and  nothing  but 
such  blood  and  bone  could  take.  He  is  re- 
turning from  a  "  run,"  and  is  either  ashamed 
of  his  guests,  and  wants  to  tail  them  off,  or 
would  like  to  get  home  and  tell  his  wife  that 
"  some  beggars  "  are  coming  to  lunch  ;  or  it 
may  be  merely  of  the  nature  of  a  sudden 
lark,  for  the  escape  of  his  own  and  his  gray's 
unsatisfied  "  go."  The  gray  is  over  it  like  a 
bird.  The  drawing  of  this  horse  is  marvel- 
lous ;  it  is  an  action  that  could  only  last  a 
fraction  of  a  second,  and  yet  the  artist  has 
taken  it.  Observe  the  group  in  the  road  of 
the  astounded  "  strangers."  There  is  the  big 
hulking,  sulky  young  cornet,  ''  funking,"  as 
it  is  technically  called  ;  our  friend  Tom 
Noddy  behind  him,  idiotic  and  ludicrous  as 
usual,  but  going  to  go  at  it  like  a  man  such 
as  he  is,  —  the  wintrv  elms,  the  hm  hedger 
;it  his  work  on  his  knees,  —  all  done  to  the 


■'  And  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops." 


JOHN    LEECH.  .    7i   ' 

quick.  But  the  finest  bit  of  all  is  the  eye  of 
the  mare.  She  knows  well  it  is  a  short  cut 
home  ;  and  her  cheery,  fearless,  gentle  eye  is 
keenly  fixed,  not  on  where  she  is  about  to 
land,  —  that's  all  right, — but  on  the  dis- 
tance, probably  her  own  staljle  belfry.  This 
woodcut  is  very  valuable,  and  one  of  the 
largest  he  ever  did. 

How  arch  I  how  lovely  I  how  maidenly  in 
this  their  "  sweet  hour  of  prime  "  the  two 
conspirators*  are !  What  a  clever  bit  of  com- 
position !  how  workmanlike  the  rustic  seat  ! 
how  jauntily  the  approaching  young  swells 
are  bearing  down  upon  them,  keeping  time 
with  their  long  legs  !  you  know  how  they 
will  be  chaffing  all  together  in  a  minute  ; 
what  ringing  laughs  I 

And  is  not  she  a  jocund  morn  ?  day  is  too 
old  for  her.  She  is  in  "the  first  garden  of 
her  simpleness,"  —  in  "  the  innocent  bright- 

*  S?e  frontispiece. 


72  JOHN    LEECH. 

ness  of  her  new-born  day."  How  iDlumb  she 
stands  !  How  firm  these  dainty  heels  !  — 
leaning  forward  just  a  little  on  the  wind  ; 
her  petticoat,  a  mere  hint  of  its  wee  bit  of 
scolloped  work,  done  by  herself,  doubtless  ; 
the  billowy  gown  ;  the  modest  little  sonjpgon 
of  the  white  silk  stockings,  anybody  else 
would  have  shown  none,  or  too  much  ;  the 
shadow  of  puffing  papa  approaching  to  help 
her  down  ;  the  wonderful  sense  of  air  and 
space.  The  only  thing  we  question  is,  Would 
papa's  hat's  shadow  show  the  rim  across,  in- 
stead of  only  at  the  sides  ] 

This  belongs  to  a  set  of  drawings  made 
when  down  in  Staffordshire,  his  wife's  county. 
They  are  all  full  of  savage  strength.  They 
show  how  little  he  drew  from  fancy,  and  how 
much  from  nature,  memory,  and  invention 
proper,  which,  as  does  also  true  imagination, 
postulate  a  foundation  in  materials  and  fact. 
A  mere  Cockney,  —  whose  idea  of  a  rouf^di 


UT   FR03I    THE    MINIXG    DISTRICTS. 


First.  W'nt  tak'  thy  quoat  ofl",  then  1  Oi  tell  the. 
oi'm  as  good  a  uiou  as  thee  ! 

Second.  Thes  anion!  Whoy,  thou  be'est  only  wril'.c 
in'  abnot  to  save  thy  funeral  expenses. 


JOHN    LEECH.  75 

was  that  of  a  London  ruftian,  —  Avoiild  have 
put  Staffordshire  clothes  on  the  Bill  Sykes 
he  may  have  seen  in  the  flesh  or  more  likely 
on  the  stage,  and  that  would  be  all  :  Leech 
gives  you  the  essence,  the  clothes,  and  the 
county.  Look  at  these  two  fellows,  brutal  as 
their  own  bull-dogs  and  as  stanch,  —  haA'ing 
their  own  virtues  too,  in  a  way,  —  what  a 
shoulder,  what  a  deltoid  and  biceps  !  the  up- 
per man  developed  largely  by  generations  of 
arm  work,  the  legs  well  enough,  but  not  in 
proportion,  —  their  education  having  been 
neglected.  Contrast  these  men  with  Leech's 
Highlandmen  in  Briggs'  Salmon  and  Grouse 
Adventures :  there  matters  are  reversed,  be- 
cause so  are  the  conditions  of  growth.  A 
StafiFordshire  upper-man  on  Rannoch  or 
Liddesdale  legs  would  be  an  ugly  customer. 
Observe  the  pipe  fallen  round  from  the 
mouth's  action  in  speaking,  and  see  how  the 
potteries  are  indicated  by  the  smoking  brick 
cupola. 


to  JOHX    LEECH. 

This  is  delicious  !  What  comic  vis  !  Pluck 
and  perspiration  !  bewilderment  and  bott(nn ! 
He  '11  be  at  it  again  presently,  give  him  time. 
This  is  only  one  of  the  rounds,  and  the  boot- 
hooks  are  ready  for  the  next.  Look  at  the 
state  of  his  back-hair,  his  small,  determined 
^ye  !  the  braces  burst  with  the  stress  !  The 
affair  is  being  done  in  some  remote,  solitary 
room.  The  hat  is  ready,  looking  at  him,  and 
so  are  the  spurs  and  the  other  boot,  standing 
bolt  upright  and  impossible  ;  but  he  '11  do  it ; 
apoplexy  and  asphyxia  may  be  imminent  ; 
but  doubtless  these  are  the  very  boots  he  won 
the  steeplechase  in.  A  British  lion  this  too, 
not  to  be  "  done,"  hating  that  bite  of  a  wonl 
"  impossible  "  as  much  as  Bonaparte  did,  and 
as  Briggs  does  him.  "We  have  an  obscure 
notion,  too,  that  he  has  put  the  wrong  foot 
into  the  boot  ;  never  mind. 

The  character  of  Mr.  Briggs,  throughout  all 
predicaments  in  Punch,  is,  we  think,  better 


JOHX    LEECH.  79 

sustained,  more  real,  more  thoroughly  respect- 
able and  comic,  than  even  Mr.  Pickwick's. 
Somehow,  though  the  latter  worthy  is  always 
very  delightful  and  like  himself  when  he  is 
M'ith  us,  one  does  n't  know  what  becomes  of 
him  the  rest  of  the  day  ;  and  if  he  was  asked 
to  be,  we  fear  he  could  n't  live  through  an 
hour,  or  do  anything  for  himself.  He  is  for 
the  stage.  Brir/gs  is  a  man  you  have  seen,  — 
he  is  a  man  of  business,  of  sense,  and  energy  ; 
a  good  husband  and  citizen,  a  true  Briton  and 
Christian,  peppery,  generous,  plucky,  obsti- 
nate, faithful  to  his  spouse  and  Ijill  ;  only  lie 
has  this  craze  about  hunting  and  sport  in 
general. 

This  is  from  the  Little  Tour  in  Ireland,  in 
which,  by  the  by,  is  one  of  the  only  two 
drawings  he  ever  made  of  himself,  —  at  page 
141  ;  it  is  a  back  view  of  him,  riding  with 
very  short  stirrups  a  rakish  Irish  pony  ;  he  is 
In  the  Gap  of  Dunloe,  and  listening  to  a  bare- 


80  JOHN    LEECH. 

footed  master  of  blarney.  The  other  likeness 
is  in  a  two-page  Cartoon,  — "  Mr.  Punch's 
Fancy  Ball,"  January,  1847.  In  the  orches- 
tra are  the  men  on  the  Punch  staff  at  the 
time.  The  first  on  the  left  is  Mayhew,  play- 
ing the  cornet,  then  Percival  Leigh  the  double 
bass,  Gilbert  A'Beckett  the  violin,  Doyle  the 
clarionette,  Leech  next  playing  the  same,  — 
tall,  handsome,  and  nervous, —  Mark  Lemon, 
the  editor,  as  conductor,  appealing  to  the  fell 
Jerrold  to  moderate  his  bitter  transports  on 
the  drum.  Mooning  over  all  is  Thackeray, 
—  big,  vague,  childlike,  —  playing  on  the 
piccolo  ;  and  Tom  Taylor  earnestly  pegging 
away  at  the  piano.  What  a  change  from 
such  a  fancy  to  this  sunset  and  moonrise  on 
the  quiet,  lonely  Connemara  Bay,  —  nothing 
living  is  seen  but  the  great  winged  sea-bird 
flapping  his  way  home,  close  to  the  "  charmed 
wave."  The  whole  scene  radiant,  sacred,  and 
still  ;  "  the  gleam,  the  shadow,  and  the  peace 


JOHN    LEECH.  83 

supreme."  The  man  who  could  feel  this, 
and  make  us  feel  it,  had  the  soul  and  the 
hand  of  a  great  painter. 

This  speaks  for  itself.  Nobody  needs  to  be 
told  which  is  Freddy  ;  and  you  see  the  book 
from  which  Arthur  got  his  views  of  Genesis 
and  the  mystery  of  being  ;  and  the  motherly, 
tidy  air  of  the  beds  !  Freddy's  right  thumb 
in  his  belt  ;  the  artistic  use  of  that  mass  of 
white  beyond  his  head  ;  the  drawing  of  his 
right  sole  ;  the  tremendous  bit  of  theology 
in  that  "  only,"  —  do  any  of  us  know  much 
more  about  it  now  than  does  Arthur  ?  —  only 
surely  nobody  would  now  say,  according  to 
Pet  Marjory's  brother,  that  our  Arthur,  as  he 
now  sits,  clean  and  caller,  all  tucked  up  in 
his  nightgown,  —  made  of  soft  cotton,  thick 
and  (doubtless)  tweeled,  —  and  ready  for  any 
amount  of  discussion,  is  only  "  dirt."  "^ 

*  This  word,  in  conjunction  with  cliildren,  brings 
into  our  mind  a  joke  which  happened  to  Dr.  Nor- 


84:  JOHN    LEECH. 

We  have  said  he  Avas  greater  in  humor 
than  in  caricature  or  even  satire,  and,  like  all 
true  humorists,  he  had  the  tragic  sense  and 

man  M'Leod,  andAvhicli  he  tells  as  only  he  can  tell 
his  own  stones.  He  was  Avatching  some  barelegged 
Glasgow  street  children  who  were  busied  in  a  great 
mud-work  in  the  kennel.  "What's  that ?"  said 
he,  stooping  down.  "It's  a  kirk,"  said  they, 
never  looking  np.  "  Where  's  the  door  ?"  "  There  's 
the  door,"  points  a  forefinger,  that  answers  young 
Fleming's  account  of  the  constitution  of  man. 
"  Where 's  the  steeple  ?  "  "  There  's  the  steej)le," 
—  a  defunct  spunk  .slightly  off  the  perpendicular. 
"Where's  the  poopit  ?  "  "There's  the  poopit," 
said  the  biggest,  his  finger  making  a  hole  in  a 
special  bit  of  clay  he  had  been  fondly  rounding  in 
his  palms.  "  And  where 's  the  minister  ?  "  "  0,  ye 
see,"  looking  as  vacant  as  a  congregation  in  such 
circunrstances  should,  and  as  the  hole  did  when  he 
withdrew  his  finger,  "  Ou're  run  oot  o'  dirt ;  "  but 
jumping  up,  and  extinguishing  for  the 'time,  witli 
Ills  liare  foot,  the  entire  back  gallery,  he  exclaims, 


A    MORAL    LE.-SON    FROM    THE   XURSERY. 


Arthur.  Do  you  know,  Freddy,  that  we  are  only  made 
of  dust  ? 

Freddy.  Are  we  ?  Then  I  'm  sure  we  ought  to  be  very 
careful  how  we  pitch  into  each  other  so,  for  fear  we 
Inight  crumble  each  other  all  to  pieces. 


JOHN    LEECH.  87 

power  ;  for  as  is  the  height  so  is  the  depth, 
as  is  the  mirth  so  is  the  melancholy  ;  Loch 
Lomond  is  deepest  when  Ben  dips  into  it. 
Look  at  this.     Mr.  Merrynian  and  his  dead 

"  There  's  Airchie  comin',  he's  got  a  bit."  Airchie 
soon  converted  his  dirt  into  a  minister,  who  was 
made  round,  and  put  into  his  hole,  the  gallery 
repaired,  and  the  '•'call"  vociferously  unanimous 
and  ''sustained."  Would  n't  that  jovial  piece  of 
professional  "dirt"  chew  his  cud  of  droll  fancies  as 
he  walked  off,  from  the  fall  of  man  to  the  Aberdeen 
Act,  and  the  entire  subject  of  dirt. 

"Where  did  Adam  fall T'  said  his  kindly  old 
minister  to  "  Wee  Peter "  at  the  examination. 
"Last  nicht,  at  the  close-mooth,  sir"  (Adam,  like 
his  oltl  namesake,  was  in  the  way  of  frequenting  a 
certain  forbidden  tree,  his  was  "The  Lemon  Tree," 
— it  was  in  Aberdeen),  "and  he's  a'  glaur  yet," 
(glaur  being  Scottice  et  Scotorum,  wet  dirt).  "  Ay, 
ay,  my  wee  man,"  said  the  benevolent  Calvinist, 
patting  his  head,  ' '  he  's  a'  glaur  yet,  —  he 's  a' 
glaur  vet." 


88  JOHN    LEECH. 

\\  ife,  —  there  is  nothing  in  Hogarth  more 
tragic  and  more  true.  It  is  a  travelling  cir- 
cus ;  its  business  at  its  height ;  the  dying 
woman  has  just  made  a  glorious  leap  through 
the  papered  hoop  ;  the  house  is  still  ringing 
with  the  applause  ;  she  fell  and  was  hurt 
cruelly  ;  but,  saying  nothing,  crept  into  this 
caravan  room ;  she  has  been  prematurely 
delivered,  and  is  now  dead  ;  she  had  been 
begging  her  Bill  to  come  near  her,  and  to 
hear  her  last  words  ;  Bill  has  kissed  her, 
taken  her  to  his  heart,  —  and  she  is  gone. 
Look  into  this  bit  of  misery  and  nature  ; 
look  at  her  thin  face,  white  as  the  waning 
moon 

"  Stranded  on  tlie  pallid  shove  of  morn  "  ; 

the  women's  awe-stricken,  pitiful  looks  (the 
great  Gomersal,  with  his  big  blue-black  un- 
whiskered  cheek,  his  heavy  mustache,  his 
business-like,  urgent  thumb,  —  even  he  is 
being  solemnized  and  hushed)  ;   the  trunk 


JOHN    LEECH.  91 

pulled  out  for  the  poor  baby's  clothes  secretly 
prepared  at  by-hours  by  the  poor  mother  ; 
the  neatly  mended  tear  in  Mary's  frock  ;  the 
coronet,  the  slippers,  the  wand  Avith  its  glit- 
tering star  ;  the  nearness  of  the  buzzing 
multitude  ;  the  dignity  of  death  over  the 
whole.  "We  do  not  know  who  '•'  S.  H."  is, 
who  tells,  with  his  strong  simplicity,  the 
story  of  "  The  Queen  of  the  Arena,"  —  it  is 
in  the  first  volume  of  Once  a  Week,  —  but  we 
can  say  nothing  less  of  it  than  that  it  is 
worthy  of  this  woodcut  ;  it  must  have  been 
true.  Here,  too,  as  in  all  Leech's  works, 
there  is  a  manly  sweetness,  an  overcoming 
of  evil  by  good,  a  gentleness  that  tames  the 
anguish  ;  you  find  yourself  taking  off  your 
shoes,  and  bow  as  in  the  presence  of  the  Su- 
preme, —  who  gives,  who  takes  away, —  Avho 
restores  the  lost.* 

*  We  remember  many  years  ago,  in  St.  Andrews, 
on  the  fair-day  in  September,  standing  befoi"e  a 


92  JOHN    LEECH. 

We  end  as  we  began,  by  being  thankful 
for  our  gift  of  laughter,  and  for  our  makers 
of  the  same,  for  the  pleasant  joke,  for  the 

show,  where  some  wonderful  tumbling  and  music 
and  dancing  was  being  done.  It  was  called  by  way 
of  Tlie  Tempest,  a  ballet,  and  Miranda  was  pirou- 
/itting  away  all  glorious  with  her  crown  and  rouge 
r.nd  tinsel.  She  was  young,  with  dark,  wild,  rich 
('yes  and  hair,  and  shapely,  tidy  limbs.  The  Mas- 
ler  of  ceremonies,  a  big  fellow  of  forty,  with  an 
/  onest,  merry  face,  was  urging  the  young  lady  to 
io  her  best,  when  suddenly  I  saw  her  start,  and 
->hought  I  heard  a  child's  cry  in  the  midst  of  the 
rough  music.  She  looked  eagerly  at  the  big  man, 
ivho  smiled,  made  her  jump  higher  than  ever,  at 
die  same  time  winking  to  some  one  within.  Up 
tame  the  bewitching  Ferdinand,  glorious,  too,  but 
old  and  ebriose  ;  and  under  cover  of  a  fresh  round 
of  cheers  from  the  public,  Miranda  vanished. 
Presently  the  cry  stopped,  and  the  big  man  smiled 
again,  and  thumped  his  drum  more  fiercely.  I 
stepped  out  of  the  crowd,  and  getting  to  the  end  of 


JOHN    LEECH.  93 

inirtli  that  heals  and  heartens,  and  never 
wounds,  that  assuages  and  diverts.  This, 
like  all  else,  is  a  gift  from  the  Supreme  Giver, 
to  be  used  as  not  abused,  to  be  kept  in  its 
proper  place,  neither  despised  nor  estimated 
and  cultivated  overmuch  ;  for  it  has  its  per- 
ils as  well  as  its  pleasures,  and  is  not  always, 
as  in  this  case,  on  the  side  of  truth  and 
virtue,  modesty  and  sense.  If  you  wish 
to  know  from  a  master  of  the  art  what  are 
the  dangers  of  giving  one's  self  too  much  up 

the  caravan,  peered  through  a  broken  panel.  There 
was  our  gum-flower-crowned  Miranda  sitting  be- 
side a  cradle,  on  an  old  regimental  drum,  with  her 
baby  at  her  breast.  0  how  lovely,  how  blessed, 
how  at  peace  they  looked,  how  all  in  all  to  each 
other!  and  the  fat  handy-pandy  patting  its  plump, 
snowy,  unfailing  friend ;  it  was  like  Hagar  and 
young  Ishmael  by  themselves.  1  learned  that  the 
big  man  was  her  husband,  and  \ised  her  well  in  his 
own  gruff  wav. 


94  JOHH    LEECH. 

to  the  comic  view  of  things,  how  it  demoral- 
izes the  whole  iiicUi,  read  what  we  have  already 
earnestly  commended  to  you,  Sydney  Smith's 
two  lectures,  in  which  there  is  something 
quite  pathetic  in  the  earnestness  with  which 
he  speaks  of  the  snares  and  the  degradations 
that  mere  wit,  comicality,  and  waggery  bring 
upon  the  best  of  men.  We  end  with  his  con- 
cluding words  :  — 

"  I  have  talked  of  the  danger  of  wit  and 
humor  :  I  do  not  mean  by  that  to  enter  into 
commonplace  declamation  against  faculties 
because  they  ai'e  dangerous.  Wit  is  dan- 
gerous, eloquence  is  dangerous,  a  talent  for 
observation  is  dangerous,  every  thing  is  dan- 
gerous that  has  efficacy  and  vigor  for  its 
characteristics  ;  nothing  is  safe  but  medioc- 
crity.  The  business  is  in  conducting  the 
understanding  well,  to  risk  something  ;  to 
aim  at  uniting  things  that  are  commonly  in- 
compatible.    The  meaning  of  an  extraordi- 


JOHN    LEECH.  95 

nary  man  is,  that  he  is  eight  men,  not  one  man  ; 
that  he  has  as  much  wit  as  if  he  had  no 
sense,  and  as  much  sense  as  if  he  had  no  wit ; 
that  his  conduct  is  as  judicious  as  if  he  were 
the  dullest  of  human  beings,  and  his  imagi- 
nation as  brilliant  as  if  h^were  irretrievably 
ruined.  But  when  wit  is  combined  with 
sense  and  information  ;  when  it  is  softened 
by  benevolence,  and  restrained  by  strong 
principle  ;  when  it  is  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
who  can  use  it  and  despise  it,  who  can  be 
witty  and  something  much  better  than  witty, 
who  loves  honor,  justice,  decency,  good- 
nature, morality,  and  religion  ten  thousand 
times  better  than  wit,  —  wit  is  then  a  beau- 
tiful and  delightful  part  of  our  nature. 
There  is  no  more  interesting  spectacle  than 
to  see  the  effects  of  wit  upon  the  different 
characters  of  men  ;  than  to  observe  it  expand- 
ing caution,  relaxing  dignity,  unfreezing  cold- 
ness, —  teaching  age  and  care  and  pain  to 


96  JOHN    LEECH. 

smile,  —  extorting  reluctant  gleams  of  pleas- 
ure from  melancholy,  and  charming  even  the 
pangs  of  grief.  It  is  pleasant  to  observe  how 
it  penetrates  through  the  coldness  and  awk- 
wardness of  society,  gi-adually  bringing  men 
nearer  together,  and,  like  the  combined  force 
of  wine  and  oil,  giving  every  man  a.  glad 
heart  and  a  shining  countenance.  Genuine 
and  innocent  wit  and  humor  like  this  is  surely 
the  flavor  cf  the  mind  I  Man  could  direct  his 
ways  hy  jjlain  reason,  and  sujyport  his  life  hy 
tasteless  food;  hut  God  has  given  us  wit,  and 
flavor,  and  brightness,  and  laughter,  and  per- 
fumes, to  enliven  the  days  of  man's  pilgrimage, 
and  to  '  charm  his  pained  steps  over  the  burn- 
ing marie.' " 


THACKERAY'S   LITERARY 
CAREER. 


L<»^i 


j^'^\  \  V  'J  ^^'^.^N^ivgK^^HaM^iS 


THACKERAY'S    LITERARY 
CAREER. 


''HAT  Mr.  Thackeray  was  born  in  India  in 
'  1811 ;  that  he  Avas  educated  at  Charter 
I  House  and  Cambridge ;  that  he  left  the 
Cniversity  after  a  few  terms'  resid^nce  without  a 
degree  ;  that  he  devoted  himself  at  first  to  art  ;  that 
in  pursuit  thereof  he  lived  much  abroad  '"'  for  study, 
for  sport,  for  society  "  ;  that  about  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  married,  without  fortune,  without  a  profession, 
he  began  the  career  which  has  made  him  an  Eng- 
lish classic  ;  that  he  pursued  that  career  steadily  till 
his  d:>ath,  — -all  this  has,  within  the  last  few  weeks, 
been  told  again  and  again. 

It  is  a  common  saying  that  the  lives  of  men  of 
letters  are  uneventful.  In  an  obvious  sense  this  is 
true.  They  are  seldom  called  on  to  take  part  in 
events  which  move  the  world,  in  politics,  in  the  con- 
fli;-t3  of  nations  ;  while  the  exciting  incidents  of 
sensation-novels  are  as  rare  in  their  lives  as  in  the 


6       Thackeray's  literary  career. 

lives  of  other  men.  But  men  of  letters  are  in  no 
way  exempt  from  the  changes  and  chances  of  for- 
tune ;  and  the  story  of  these,  and  of  the  eflfects 
which  came  from  them,  must  possess  an  interest  for 
all.  Prosperity  succeeded  by  cruel  reverses ;  hap- 
piness, and  the  long  prospect  of  it,  suddenly  clouded  ; 
a  hard  fight,  with  aims  as  yet  uncertain,  and  powers 
unknown  ;  success  bravely  won ;  the  austerer  vic- 
tory of  failure  manfully  borne,  —  these  things  make 
a  life  truly  eventful,  and  make  the  story  of  that  life 
full  of  interest  and  instruction.  They  will  all  faj 
to  be  narrated  when  Mr.  Thackeray's  life  shall  be 
written  ;  we  have  only  now  to  do  with  them  so  far 
as  they  illustrate  his  literary  career,  of  which  Ave 
propose  to  lay  before  our  readers  an  account  as  com- 
plete as  is  in  our  power,  and  as  impartial  as  our 
warm  admiration  for  the  great  writer  we  have  lost 
will  allow. 

Many  readers  know  Mr.  Thackeray  only  as  the 
Thackeray  of  Vanity  Fair,  Fendenuis,  The  New- 
comes,  and  The  Virginians,  the  quadrilateral  of  his 
fame,  as  they  were  called  by  the  writer  of  an  able 
and  kindly  notice  in  the  Illustrated  News.  The 
four  volumes  of  Miscellanies  published  in  1857, 
though  his  reputation  had  been  then  established,  are 
less  known  than  they  should  be.  But  ^Mr.  Thack- 
eray wrote  much  which  does  not  appear  even  in  the 
Miscellanies ;  and  some  account  of  his  early  labors 
may  not  be  unacceptable  to  our  readers. 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.  7 

His  first  attempt  was  ambitious.  He  became 
connected  as  editor,  and  also,  we  suspect,  in  some 
measure,  as  proprietor,  with  a  weekly  literary  jour- 
nal, the  fortunes  of  which  were  not  prosperous.  "We 
believe  the  journal  to  have  been  one  which  bore  the 
imposing  title  of  "  The  National  Standard  and  Jour- 
nal of  Literature,  Science,  ^Music,  Theatricals,  and 
the  Fine  Arts."'  Thackeray's  editorial  reign  began 
about  the  19th  Number,  after  which  he  seems  to 
have  done  a  good  deal  of  work,  —  reviews,  letters, 
criticisms,  and  verses.  As  the  National  Standard 
is  now  hardly  to  be  met  with  out  of  the  British 
Museum,  we  give  a  few  specimens  of  these  first 
efforts.  There  is  a  mock  sonnet  by  W.  Words- 
worth, illustrative  of  a  drawing  of  Braham  in  stage 
nautical  costume,  standing  by  a  theatrical  sea-shore  ; 
in  the  background  an  Israelite,  with  the  clothes-bag 
and  triple  hat  of  his  ancient  race ;  and  in  the  sky, 
constellation-wise,  appears  a  Jew's  harp,  with  a 
chaplet  of  bays  round  it.     The  sonnet  runs  :  — 

Say  not  that  Judali's  harp  hath  lost  its  tone, 
Or  tliat  no  bard  liath  found  it  wliere  it  hung 
Broken  and  lonely,  voiceless  and  unstrung, 
Beside  the  sluggish  streams  of  Babylon  : 
Slowman  *  repeats  the  strains  his  father  sung, 

*  "  It  is  needless  to  speak  of  the  eminent  vocalist  and  ira- 
provisatore.  lie  nightly  delights  a  numerous  and  respect- 
able audience  at  the  Cider  Cellar;  and  while  on  this  subject, 
I  cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Evans, 
the  worthy  proprietor  of  that  estai)li?hni"nt.  N.  B. — A 
^N^  'fh/jte  every  Friday.  —  W.  Wordsworth." 


8  THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER. 

And  Judah's  burning  lyre  is  Braliam's  own ! 

Behold  him  here !     Here  view  the  wondrous  niau, 

Majestical  and  lonely,  as  when  first, 

In  music  on  a  wondering  world  he  burst, 

And  charmed  the  ravished  ears  of  Sov'reign  Anne.* 

Mark  well  the  form,  0  reader !  nor  deride 

Tlie  sacred  symbol  ^  Jew's  harp  glorified  — 

Which,  circled  with  a  l>looming  wreath,  is  seen 

Of  verdant  bays  ;  and  thus  arc  typified 

The  pleasant  music,  and  the  baize  of  green, 

Whence  issues  out  at  eve  Braham  with  front  sei'cne." 

We  have  here  the  germ  of  a  style  in  which  Thack- 
eray became  famous,  though  the  hiim.or  of  att)nb- 
uting  this  nonsense  to  AVordswodh,  and  of  making 
Braham  coeval  with  Queeii  Anne,  is  not  now  very 
plain.  There  is  a  yet  more  characteristic  touch  in 
a  review  of  INIontgomery's  "  AVcman  ihe  Angel  of 
Life,"  winding  up  with  a  quotation  of  some  dozen 
lines,  the  order  of  which  he  says  has  been  reversed 
by  the  printer,  but  as  they  read  quite  as  well  the 
one  way  as  ihe  other,  he  does  not  think  it  worth 
while  1o  correct  the  mistake  !  A  comical  talc,  called 
the  "  Devil's  AVager,"  afterwards  reprinted  in  the 
Paris  Sketch-Book,  also  appeared  in  the  National 
Standard,  with  a  capital  woodcut,  representing  the 
Devil  as  sailing  through  the  air,  dragging  after  him 
the  fat  Sir  Roger  de  Rollo  by  means  of  his  tail, 
"which  is  wound  round  Sir  Roger's  neck.  The  idea 
of  this  tale  is  characteristic.     The  venerable  knight, 

*"Mr.  Braham  made  his  first  appearance  in  England  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne.  — W.  W." 


Thackeray's  jjt::kakv  career.        9 

already  iii  the  other  world,  has  m-ide  a  foolish  bet 
with  the  Devil  involving  very  seriously  his  future 
prospects  there,  which  he  can  only  win  by  persuad- 
ing some  of  his  relatives  on  earth  to  say  an  Ave  for 
him.  He  fails  to  obtain  this  slight  boon  from  a 
kinsman  successor  for  obvious  reasons  ;  and  from  a 
beloved  niece,  owing  to  a  musical  lover  whose  sere- 
nading quite  puts  a  stop  to  her  devotional  exercises  ; 
and  succeeds  at  last,  only  when,  giving  up  all  hope 
from  coinpassion  or  generosity,  he  appeals  by  a  pious 
fraud  to  the  selfishness  of  a  brother  and  a  monk. 
'I  he  story  ends  with  a  very  Thackerean  touch : 
"  The  moral  of  this  story  wiU  be  given  in  several 
successive  numbers  "  ;  the  last  three  words  are  in 
the  Sketch-Book  changed  into  "the  second  edition." 
Perhaps  best  of  all  is  a  portrait  of  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, presenting  the  Citizen  King  under  the  Robert 
Maeaire  aspect,  the  adoption  and  popularity  of  which 
Thackeray  so  carefully  explains  and  illustrates  in  his 
Essay  on  "  Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris." 
Below  the  poi-trait  are  these  lines,  not  themselves 
very  remarkable,  but  in  which,  esi)ecially  in  the  al- 
lusion to  Snobs  by  the  destined  enemy  of  the  race, 
we  catch  glimpses  of  the  future  :  — 

"Like  'the  king  in  the  parlor'  he  's  fumbling  his  money. 
Like  '  the  queen  iu  the  kitchen  '  his  speech  is  all  honey, 
Except  -when  he  talks  ir,  like  Emperor  Nap, 
Of  his  wonderful  feats  at  T'leunis  and  Jemappe ; 
But  alas !  all  his  zeal  for  the  multitude  's  gone, 
And  of  no  numbers  thinking  except  Xuniber  One! 


10     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

No  huzzas  greet  his  coming,  no  patriot  chib  licks 

The  hand  of  '  the  best  of  created  republics ' : 

He  stands  in  Paris,  as  you  see  him  before  ye, 

Little  more  than  a  snob.    That  's  an  end  of  the  story." 

The  journal  seems  to  have  been  an  attempt  to  sub- 
stitute vigorous  and  honest  criticism  of  books  and 
of  art  for  the  partiality  and  slipslop  general  then, 
and  now  not  perhaps  quite  unknown.  It  failed, 
however,  partly,  it  may  be,  from  the  inexperience 
of  its  managers,  but  doubtless  still  more  from  the 
Want  of  the  capital  necessary  to  establish  anything 
of  the  sort  in  the  face  of  similar  journals  of  old 
standing.  People  get  into  a  habit  of  taking  cer- 
tain periodicals  unconsciously,  as  they  take  snuff. 
*Ihe  Katio)iaI  Standard,  etc.,  etc.,  came  into  exist- 
ence on  the  oth  January,  1833,  and  ceased  to  be  on 
the  1st  February,  1834. 

His  subsequent  writings  contain  several  allusions 
to  this  misadventure  ;  from  some  of  which  we  would 
Infer  that  the  breakdown  of  the  journal  was  attended 
with  circumstances  more  unpleasant  than  mere  lit- 
erary failure.    Mr.  Adolphus  Simcoe  *  {Punch,  Vol. 


*  Tlie  portrait  of  Mr.  Adolphus,  stretched  out,  "  careless 
diffused,"  —  seedy,  hungry^  and  diabolical,  in  his  fashion- 
able cheap  Imt,  his  dirty  -Hhite  duck  trousers  strapped 
tightly  down,  as  being  the  mode  and  possibly  to  conceal  his 
bare  legs;  a  half-smoked,  probably  nnsmokably  bad  cigar, 
in  his  hand,  which  is  lying  over  the  arm  of  a  tavern  bench, 
from  whence  he  is  casting  a  greedy  and  ruffian  eye  upon  some 
unseen  fellows,  supping  plcnteously  and  with  cheer,  — is, 
for  power  and  drawing,  not  unworthy  of  Hogarth. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      11 

lll.\  when  in  a  bad  way  from  a  love  of  literature 
and  drink,  completed  his  ruin  by  purchasing:  and 
conductins:  for  six  months  that  celebrated  miscel- 
lany called  the  Lach/s  Lute,  after  which  time  "its 
chords  wei-e  rudely  snapped  asunder,  and  he  who 
had  swept  them  aside  with  such  joy  Avent  forth  a 
Avretched  and  heart-broken  man."'  And  in  Lovel 
ilie  Widoicer,  Mr.  Batchelor  narrates  similar  expe- 
riences :  — 

"I  dare  say  I  gave  myself  airs  as  editor  of  that  con- 
founded Museum,  and  proposed  to  educate  the  public  taste, 
to  diffuse  morality  and  sound  literature  throughout  the 
nation,  and  to  pocket  a  liberal  salary  in  return  for  my  ser- 
vices. I  dare  say  I  printed  my  own  sonnets,  my  own  trag- 
edy, my  own  verses  i  to  a  being  who  shall  l)e  nameless,  but 
whose  conduct  has  caused  a  laitliful  heart  to  bleed  not  a 
little).  I  dare  say  I  wrote  satirical  articles,  in  wliich  I 
piqued  myself  on  the  fineness  of  my  wit  and  criticisms,  got 
up  for  the  nonce,  out  of  enryclojjfedias  and  biographical  dic- 
tiouaries  ;  so  that  1  would  be  actually  astonished  at  my  own 
knowledge.  I  dare  say  I  made  a  gaby  of  myself  to  the 
world ;  pray,  my  good  friend,  hast  thou  never  done  likewise  ? 
If  thou  hast  never  been  a  fool,  be  sure  thou  wilt  never  be  a 
wise  man." 

Silence  for  a  while  seems  to  have  followed  upon 
this  failure;  but  in  1S36  his  first  attempt  at  inde- 
pendent authorship  appeared  simultaneously  at  Lon- 
don  and  Paris.  This  publication,  at  a  time  when 
he  still  hoped  to  make  his  bread  by  art,  is,  like  in- 
deed everything:  he  either  said  or  did,  so  character- 
istic, and  has  been  so  utterly  forgotten,  that  an  ac- 


12     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

count  of  it  may  not  he  out  of  place,  perhajis  more 
minute  tban  its  absolute  merits  deserve. 

It  is  a  small  folio,  with  six  litbocraphs,  sligbtly 
tinted,  entitled  Fi'ore  et  Zephyr,  Ballet  Mijiholo- 
giqne  dedie  d  —  par  T/ieopJiile  Wagstaffe.  Be- 
tween "  d. "  and  "  par  "  on  the  cover  is  the  exquisite 
Flore  hei'self,  all  alone  in  some  rosy  and  bedizened 
bower.  She  has  the  old  jaded  smirk,  and,  with  eye- 
bro\vs  up  and  eyelids  dropt,  she  is  looking  dowm 
oppressed  with  modesty  and  glory.  Her  nose, 
which  is  long,  and  has  a  ripe  droop,  gives  to  the 
semicircular  smirk  of  the  large  mouth,  down  upon 
the  centre  of  which  it  comes  in  the  funniest  way, 
an  indescribably  sentimental  absurdity.  Her  thin, 
sinewy  arms  and  large  hands  are  crossed  on  her 
breast,  and  her  petticoat  stands  out  like  an  inverted 
white  tulip  —  of  muslin  —  out  of  which  come  her 
professional  legs,  in  the  only  position  which  human 
nature  never  puts  its  legs  into  ;  it  is  her  special 
jiose.  Of  course,  also,  you  are  aware,  by  that  smirk, 
that  look  of  being  looked  at,  that  though  alone  in 
maiden  meditation  in  this  her  bower,  and  sighing 
for  her  Zephyi-,  she  is  in  front  of  some  thousand 
pairs  of  eyes,  and  under  the  fire  of  many  double- 
barrelled  lorgnettes,  of  which  she  is  the  focus. 

In  the  first  place.  La  Bansefait  ses  offrandes  sitr 
^'autel  dc  Vh:n-inonie,  in  the  shapes  of  Flore  and 
Zephyr  coming  trippingly  to  the  footlights,  and  j):;y- 
ing  no  manner  of  regard  to  the  altar  of  ha:u:oiiy, 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     13 

represented  by  a  fiddle  with  an  old  and  dreary  face, 
and  a  laurel-wreath  on  its  head,  and  veiy  great  re- 
crard  to  the  unseen  but  perfectly  understood  "  house." 
Next  is  Tr'iste  ct  abattit,  les  sidactions  des  yi/tnphes 
If  (Zephi/r)  tentent  en  vain.  Zephyr  looking  theat- 
rically sad.  Then  Flore  (with  one  lower  extremity 
at  more  than  a  right  angle  to  the  other)  deplore 
r absence  de  Zepht/r.  The  man  in  the  orchestra  en- 
deavoring to  combine  business  with  pleasure,  so  as 
to  play  the  flageolet  and  read  his  score,  and  at  the 
same  time  miss  nothing  of  the  deploring,  is  intensely 
comic.  Next  Zephyr  has  his  turn,  and  dans  un  pas 
seal  exprime  sa  siipreoie  disespoir,  —  the  extrem- 
ity of  despair  being  expressed  by  doubling  one  leg 
so  as  to  touch  ths  knee  of  the  other,  and  then  whirl- 
ing round  so  as  to  suggest  the  regulator  of  a  steam- 
engine  run  off.  Next  is  the  rapturous  reconcilia- 
tion, when  the  faithful  creature  bounds  into  his 
arms,  and  is  held  up  to  the  house  by  the  waist  in 
the  wonted  fashion.  Then  there  is  La  Uelraite  de 
Flore,  where  we  find  her  with  ber  mother  and  two 
admirers,  —  Zephyr,  of  course,  not  one.  This  is 
in  Thackeray's  strong,  unflinching  line.  One  lover 
is  a  young  dandy  without  forehead  or  chin,  sitting 
idiotically  astride  his  chair.  To  him  the  old  lady, 
who  has  her  slight  rouge,  too,  and  is  in  a  homely 
shawl  and  muflF,  having  walked,  is  making  faded 
love.  In  the  centre  is  the  fair  darling  herself,  still 
on  tiptoe,  and  wrapped  up,  but  not  too  much,  for 


14     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

her  fiacre.  With  his  back  to  the  comfortable  tire, 
and  staring  wickedly  at  her,  is  the  other  lover,  a 
big,  burly,  elderly  man,  probably  well  to  do  on  the 
Bourse,  and  with  a  wife  and  family  at  home  in  their 
beds.  The  last  exhibits  Les  dtlasseinents  de  Zf^phijr. 
That  hard-working  and  homely  personage  is  resting 
his  arm  on  the  chimney-piece,  taking  a  huge  pinch 
of  snutf  from  the  box  of  a  friend,  with  a  refreshing 
expression  of  satisfaction,  the  only  bit  of  nature  as 
yet.  A  dear  little  innocent  pot-boy,  such  as  only 
Thackeray  knew  how  to  draw,  is  gazing  and  waiting 
upon  the  two,  holding  up  a  tray  from  the  nearesf 
tavern,  on  which  is  a  great  pewter-pot  of  foaming 
porter  for  Zephyr,  and  a  rummer  of  steaming  brandy 
and  water  for  his  friend,  who  has  come  in  from  the 
cold  air.  These  drawings  are  lithographed  by  Ed- 
ward Morton,  son  of  "  Speed  the  Plough,"  and  are 
done  with  that  delicate  strength  and  truth  for  which 
this  excellent  but  little  known  artist  is  always  to  be 

praised.     In  each  corner  is  the  monogram  ■\)lf/' 

which  appears  so  often  afterwards  with  the  ]M  added, 
and  is  itself  superseded  by  the  well-known  pair  of 
spectacles.  Thackeray  must  have  been  barely  tive- 
and-twcnty  when  this  was  published  by  Mitch- 
ell  in  Bond  Street.  It  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
sold. 

Now  it  is  worth  noticing  how  in  this,  as  always, 
he  ridiculed  the  u<j;lv  and  the  absurd  in  truth  aud 


thackeray'8  literary  career,      15 

pureness.  There  is,  as  we  may  Avell  kno\Y,  mucli 
that  is  wicked  (though  not  so  much  as  the  judging 
community  are  apt  to  thiukj  and  miserable  in  such 
a  life.  There  is  much  that  a  young  man  and  artist 
might  have  felt  and  drawn  in  depicting  it,  of  which 
in  after  years  he  would  be  ashamed ;  but  "  Theo- 
phile  Wagstaffe "  has  done  nothing  of  this.  The 
effect  of  looking  over  these  Javeni/ia  —  these  first 
shafts  from  that  mighty  bow,  now,  alas !  unbent  — 
is  good,  is  moral ;  you  are  sorry  for  the  hard-wrought 
slaves ;  perhaps  a  little  contemptuous  towards  the 
idle  people  who  go  to  see  them ;  and  you  feel,  more- 
over, that  the  Ballet,  as  thus  done,  is  ugly  as  well 
as  bad,  is  stupid  as  well  as  destructive  of  decency. 

His  dream  of  editorship  being  ended,  Mr.  Thack- 
eray thenceforward  contented  himself  with  the  more 
lowly,  but  less  responsible,  position  of  a  contribu- 
tor, especially  to  Frasers  Mayazme.  The  youth 
of  Fraser  was  full  of  vigor  and  genius.  ^Ye  know 
no  better  reading  than  its  early  volumes,  unsparing 
indeed,  but  brilliant  with  scholarship  and  original- 
ity and  fire.  In  these  days,  the  staff  of  that  peri- 
odical included  such  men  as  Maginn,  "  Barry  Corn- 
wall," Coleridge,  Carlyle,  Hogg,  Gait,  Theodore 
Hook,  Delta,  Gleig,  Edward  Irving,  and,  now  among 
the  greatest  of  them  all,  Thackeray.  The  first  of  the 
Yelhmplush  Correspoiidence  appeared  in  Novem- 
ber, 1837.  The  world  should  be  grateful  to  Mr. 
John  Henry  Skelton,  who  in  that  year  wrote  a  book 


16     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

called  Ml/  Book,  or  the  Anatomi/  of  Conduct,  for 
to  him  is  owing  the  existence  of  Mr.  Charles  Yellow- 
plush  as  a  critic,  and  as  a  narrator  of  "  fashnable 
fax  and  polite  annygoats."  Mr  Yellowplush,  on 
reading  Mr.  Skelton's  book,  saw  at  once  that  only 
a  gentleman  of  his  distinguished  profession  could 
competently  criticise  the  same ;  and  this  was  soon 
succeeded  by  the  wider  conviction  that  the  great 
subject  of  fashionable  life  should  not  be  left  to  any 
"common  writin  creatures,"  but  <hat  an  authentic 
picture  thereof  must  be  supplied  by  "  one  of  us." 
In  the  words  of  a  note  to  the  first  paper,  with  the 
initials  O.  Y.,  but  which  it  is  easy  to  recognize  as 
the  work  of  Mr.  Charles  himself  without  the  plush  : 
"  He  who  looketh  from  a  tower  sees  more  of  the 
battle  than  the  knights  and  captains  engaged  in  it ; 
and,  in  like  manner,  he  who  stands  behind  a  fash- 
ionable table  knows  more  of  society  than  the  guests 
who  sit  at  the  board.  It  is  from  this  source  that 
our  great  novel-writers  have  drawn  their  experi- 
ence, retailing  the  truths  which  they  learned.  It 
is  not  impossible  that  Mr.  Yellowplush  may  con- 
tinue his  communications,  when  we  shall  be  able 
to  present  the  reader  with  the  only  authentic  pic- 
ture of  lashionable  life  which  has  been  given  to  the 
world  in  our  time."  The  idea  was  not  carried  out 
very  fully.  The  only  pictures  sketched  by  Mr. 
Yellowplush  were  the  farce  of  "  Miss  Shum's  Hus- 
oand "    and  the  terrible    tragedy  of   '"  Deuceace," 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      17 

neither  of  them  exactly  "pictures  of  foshionable 
life."  We  rather  fancy  that,  in  the  story  of  Mr. 
Deuceace,  Mr.  Yellowpliish  was  carried  away  from 
his  original  plan,  a  return  to  which  he  found  im- 
possible after  that  Avonderful  m?dley  of  rascality, 
grim  humor,  and  unrelieved  b3d3\  ilry  of  all  kinds. 
But  in  1838  he  reverted  to  his  original  critical 
tendencies,  and  demolished  all  that  The  Q^aarterlij 
had  left  of  a  book  which  made  some  noise  in  its 
day,  called  A  D'ar>/  lUv.stratice  of  the  Times  of 
George  the  Fourth ;  and  wrote  from  his  pantry  one 
of  the  "Epistles  to  the  Literati,"  expressing  bis 
views  of  Sir  Edward  Lytton's  Sea  Captain,  than 
which  we  know  of  no  more  good-natured,  tren- 
chant, and  conclusive  piece  of  criticism.  All  the 
Yellowplush  papers  except  the  first  arc  republished 
in  the  Miscellanies. 

In  1839  appeared  the  story  of  Catherine,  by  Ikey 
Solomon.  This  story  is  little  known,  and  it  throws 
us  back  upon  one  still  less  known.  In  1832,  when 
Mr.  Thackeray  was  not  more  than  twenty-one,  Elis- 
abeth Brovmrigge :  a  Tale,  was  narrated  in  the 
August  and  September  numbers  of  Fraser.  This 
tale  is  dedicated  to  the  author  of  Eugene  Aram, 
and  the  author  describes  himself  as  a  young  man 
who  has  for  a  length  of  time  apjdied  himself  to 
literature,  but  entirely  failed  in  deriving  any  emol- 
uments from  his  exertions.  Depressed  by  failure 
he  sends  for  the  popular  novel  of  Eugene  Aram  to 


18     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

gain  instruction  therefrom.  He  soon  discovers  liis 
mistake :  — 

"From  the  frequent  perusal  of  older  works  of  imagina- 
tion I  had  learnt  so  to  weave  the  incidents  of  my  story  as 
to  interest  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  virtue,  and 
to  increase  his  detestation  of  vice.  I  have  been  taught  by 
Eugene  Aram  to  mix  vice  and  virtue  up  together  in  such  an 
inextricable  confusion  as  to  render  it  impossible  that  any 
preference  should  be  given  to  either,  or  that  the  one,  indeed, 

should  be  at  all  distinguishable  from  the  other In 

taking  my  subject  from  the  walk  of  life  to  which  you  had 
directed  my  attention,  many  motives  conspired  to  fix  my 
choice  on  the  heroine  of  the  ensuing  tale ;  she  is  a  classic 
personage,  —  her  name  has  been  already  'linked  to  immor- 
tal verse '  by  the  muse  of  Canning.  Besides,  it  is  extraor- 
dinary that,  as  you  had  commenced  a  tragedy  under  the  title 
of  Eugene  Aram,  I  had  already  sketched  a  burletta  with  the 
title  of  EUsaheth  Broicnrififie.  I  had,  indeed,  in  my  dramatic 
piece,  been  guilty  of  an  egregious  and  unpardona1)le  error: 
I  had  attempted  to  excite  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  in 
favor  of  the  murdered  apprentices,  but  your  novel  has  dis- 
abused me  of  so  vulgar  a  prejudice,  and,  in  my  present  ver- 
sion of  her  case,  all  the  interest  of  the  reader  and  all  the 
pathetic  powers  of  the  author  will  be  engaged  on  the  side 
of  the  murderess." 

According  to  this  conception  the  tale  proceeds, 
with  incidents  and  even  names  taken  directly  from 
the  Nem/ate  Calendar,  hut  rivalling  Eiigpne  Jrnm 
itself  in  magnificence  of  diction,  absurdity  of  senti- 
ment, and  pomp  of  Greek  quotation.  The  trial 
scene  nnd  the  speecli  for  the  defence  are  especially 
well  hit  off.  If  Elisabeth  Brownrir/r/e  was  written 
6y  Thackeray,  and  the  internal  evidence  seems  to 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     19 

us  strong,  the  following  is  surprising  criticism  from 
a  youth  of  twenty-one,  —  the  very  Byron  and  Bul- 
wer  age  :  — 

"  I  am  inclined  to  regard  yon  (the  author  of  Eugene  Aram) 
as  an  original  discoverer  in  the  world  of  literary  enterprise, 
and  to  reverence  you  as  the  father  of  a  new  '  Insus  ncitura; 
school.'  There  is  no  other  title  by  which  your  manner  could 
he  so  aptly  designated.  I  am  told,  for  instance,  that  in  a 
former  work,  having  to  paint  an  adulterer,  you  described 
him  as  belonging  to  the  class  of  country  curates,  among 
whom,  perhaps,  such  a  criminal  is  not  met  with  once  in  a 
hundred  years ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  being  in  search  of 
a  tender-hearted,  generous,  sentimental,  high-minded  hero 
of  romance,  you  turned  to  the  pages  of  the  Nev:gate  Calen- 
dar, and  looked  for  him  in  the  list  of  men  who  have  cut 
throats  for  money,  among  whom  a  person  in  possession  of  such 
qualities  could  never  have  been  met  with  at  all.  Wanting  a 
shrewd,  selfish,  worldly,  calculating  valet,  you  describe  him 
as  an  old  soldier,  though  he  bears  not  a  single  trait  of  the 
character  which  might  have  been  moulded  by  a  long  course 
of  military  service,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  marked  by  all 
the  distinguishing  features  of  a  bankrupt  attorney,  or  a  lame 
duck  from  the  Stock  Exchange.  Having  to  paint  a  cat,  you 
endow  her  witli  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a  dog." 

At  the  end,  the  author  intimates  that  he  is  ready 
to  treat  with  any  liberal  publisher  for  a  series  of 
works  in  the  same  style,  to  be  called  Tales  of  the 
Old  B^i^f'!/,  or  Romances  of  Ti/bnr.i  Tree.  The 
proposed  series  is  represeuted  only  by  Catherine, 
^  longer  and  more  elaborate  effort  in  the  same  di- 
rection. It  is  the  narrative  of  the  misdeeds  of  ^Nlrs. 
Catherine  Hayes, — an  allusion  to  whose  criminal- 


20     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

ity  in  after  days  brouglit  down  upon  the  autlior  of 
Tendeiinis  an  amusing  outpouring  of  fury  from 
Irish  patriotism,  forgetting  in  its  excitement  that 
the  name  was  borne  by  a  heroine  of  the  Neiogate 
Calendar,  as  well  as  by  the  accomplished  singer 
whom  we  all  regret.  The  purpose  of  Catherine  is 
the  same  as  that  of  Elisabeth  Brownrigge,  —  to  ex- 
plode the  lusus  natiirce  school ;  but  the  plan  adopted 
is  slightly  different.  Things  had  got  worse  than 
they  were  in  1832.  The  public  had  called  for 
coarse  stimulants  and  had  got  them.  Jack  Shep- 
pard  had  been  acquiring  great  popularity  in  Bent- 
leifs  Miscellanij ;  and  the  true  feeling  and  pathos 
of  many  parts  of  Oliver  Twist  had  been  marred  by 
the  unnatural  sentimentalism  of  Nancy.  Mr.  Ikey 
Solomon  objected  utterly  to  these  monstrosities  of 
literature,  and  thought  the  only  cure  was  a  touch 
of  realism ;  an  attempt  to  represent  blackguards  in 
some  measure  as  they  actually  are  :  — 

"In  this,"  he  says,  "we  have  consulted  nature  and  his- 
tory ratlier  than  the  prevailing^  taste  and  the  general  manner 
of  authors.  The  amusing  novel  of  Ernest  JIaltrarers,  for 
instance,  opens  with  a  seduction ;  but  tlien  it  is  performed 
by  people  of  the  strictest  virtue  on  l)otli  sides;  and  there  is 
so.much  religion  and  philosopliy  in  the  heart  of  the  seducer, 
so  much  tender  innocence  in  the  soul  of  the  seduced,  that  — 
bless  the  little  dears!  —  their  very  peccadilloes  make  one 
interested  in  them  ;  and  their  naughtiness  becomes  quite 
sacred,  so  deliciously  is  it  described.  IS'ow,  if  avc  are  to  be 
interested  by  rascally  actions,  let  us  have  them  -ivilh  jilain 
**--es,  and  let  them  be  perfonned,  not  by  virtuous  philoso- 


Thackeray's  LiiijRARY  career.     21 

pliers,  but  by  rascals.  Another  clever  class  of  novelists 
adopt  ilic  conti-ai-y  system,  and  create  interest  by  making 
their  rascals  perform  virtuous  actions.  Against  these  popu- 
lar plans  we  here  solemnly  appeal.  We  say,  let  your  rogues 
in  novels  act  like  rogues,  and  your  honest  men  like  honest 
men;  don't  let  us  have  any  juggling  and  thimblerigging 
wlAi  virtue  and  vice,  so  that,  at  the  end  of  three  volumes, 
the  be-svildered  reader  shall  not  know  which  is  which;  don't 
let  us  fmd  ourselves  kindling  at  the  generous  qualities  of 
thieves  and  sympathizing  wiih  the  rascalities  of  noble 
hearts.  For  our  own  part,  we  know  what  the  public  likes, 
and  have  chosen  rogues  for  our  characters,  and  liave  taken 
a  story  from  the  Nnvjate  Cahndur,  which  we  hope  to  follow 
out  to  cdiiication.  Among  the  rogues  at  least,  we  will  have 
nothing  that  shall  be  mistaken  for  virtue.  And  if  the  Brit- 
ish public  (after  calling  for  three  or  four  editions;  shall  give 
up,  not  only  our  rascals,  but  the  rascals  of  all  other  authors, 
—  we  shall  be  content.  We  shall  apply  to  government  for 
a  pension,  and  think  tliat  our  duty  is  done." 

Again,  further  on  in  the  same  story  :  — 

"  The  public  wiU  hear  of  nothing  but  rogues ;  and  the  only 
way  in  which  poor  authors,  who  must  live,  can  act  honestly 
by  the  public  and  themselves,  is  to  paint  such  thieves  as 
they  are ;  not  dandy,  poetical,  rose-water  thieves,  but  real 
downright  scoundrels,  leading  scoundrelly  lives,  drunken, 
profligate,  dissolute,  low,  as  scoundrels  will  be.  They  don't 
quote  Plato  like  Eugcn.-  xVram,  or  live  like  gentlemen,  and 
sing  the  pleasantest  ballads  in  the  world,  like  jolly  Dick 
Turpin  ;  or  prate  eternally  abouc  to  Ka\6v,  like  that  precious 
canting  Maltravers,  whom  we  all  of  us  ha\  e  read  about  and 
pitied;  or  die  whitewashed  saints,  like  poor  Biss  Dadsy,  in 
Oliver  Twist.  ISo,  my  dear  madam,  you  and  your  daughters 
have  no  right  to  admire  and  sympathize  with  any  such  per- 
sons, fictitious  or  real :  you  oughr  to  be  made  cordially  to 
detest,  scorn,  loathe,  abhor,  and  abominate  all  people  of  this 


22     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

kidney.  Men  of  genius,  like  those  -w-hose  works  we  have 
above  alluded  to,  have  no  business  to  make  these  characters 
interesting  or  agreeable,  to  be  feeding  your  morbid  fancies, 
or  indulging  their  own  with  such  monstrous  food.  For  our 
parts,  young  ladies,  we  beg  you  to  bottle  up  your  tears,  and 
not  waste  a  single  drop  of  them  on  any  one  of  the  heroes 
or  heroines  in  this  history  ;  they  are  all  rascals,  every  soul 
of  them,  and  behave  'as  sich.'  Keep  your  sympathy  for 
those  who  deserve  it ;  don't  carry  it,  for  preference,  to  the 
Old  Bailey,  and  grow  maudlin  over  the  company  assembled 
there." 

Neither  of  these  tales,  thoitgh  it  is  very  curious 
to  look  back  at  them  now,  can  be  considered  quite 
successful.  And  the  reason  of  this  is  not  hard  to 
find.  It  was  impossible  that  they  could  be  at- 
tractive as  stories ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
humor  was  not  broad  enough  to  command  attention 
for  itself.  They  Avere  neither  sufficiently  interest- 
ing nor  sufficiently  amusing.  They  are  caricatures 
without  the  element  of  caricature.  In  Elisabeth, 
we  have  little  but  the  story  of  a  crime  committed 
by  a  criminal  actuated  by  motives  and  overflowing 
with  sentiments  of  the  Eugene  Aram  type.  Cath- 
erine is  more  ambitious.  In  it  an  attempt  is  made 
to  construct  a  story,  —  to  delineate  character.  The 
rival  loves  of  Mr.  Bullock  and  Mr.  Hayes,  and  the 
adventures  of  the  latter  on  his  marriage-day,  show, 
to  some  extent,  the  future  novelist ;  while  in  the 
pictures  of  the  manners  of  the  times,  slight  though 
they  are,  in  the  characters  of  Corporal  Brock  and 
Cornet  Galgeustein,  and  M.  I'Abbe  O'Flaherty,  we 


THAfKERAV's    LITERARY    CAREER.       23 

cau  trace,  or  at  least  we  uow  fancy  we  can  trace, 
tlie  author  of  Bamj  Ltjiidon  aud  Henri/  Esmond. 
Catherine  herself,  in  her  gradual  progress  from  the 
village  jilt  to  a  murderess,  is  the  most  striking 
thing  iu  the  story,  and  is  a  sketch  of  remarkahle 
power.  Bat  nothing  could  make  a  story  interest- 
ing which  consists  of  little  more  than  the  seduction 
of  a  girl,  the  intrigues  of  a  mistrtss,  the  discontent 
of  a  wife  growing  into  hatred  and  ending  iu  murder. 
At  the  close,  indeed,  the  \vrit;»i'  resorts  to  the  true 
way  of  making  such  a  jea  d' esprit  attractive,  — 
burlesque.  He  concludes,  though  too  late  alto- 
gether to  save  the  piece,  in  a  blaze  of  theatrical 
blue-lire ;  aud  it  was  this  idea  of  burlesque  or  ex- 
travagant caricature  which  led  to  the  perfected  suc- 
cesses of  George  de  Barnwell  aud  Codlingsby.  In 
a  literary  point  of  view,  it  is  well  worth  wliile  to 
go  back  upon  those  early  efforts  ;  and  we  have 
dwelt  upon  them  the  more  willingly  that  their  pur- 
jiosa  and  the  literary  doctrine  they  contend  for 
would  be  well  remembered  at  this  very  time.  "VN'e 
have  given  up  writing  about  discovered  criminals, 
only  to  write  more  about  crimiuals  not  yet  found 
out ;  the  lusiis  natura  sc-hool  has  given  place  to  the 
sensational ;  the  literature  of  the  Xewr/ate  Calendar 
has  been  supplauted  by  the  literature  of  the  detective 
officer,  —  a  style  rather  the  worse  aud  decidedly  the 
more  stupid  of  the  two.  The  republication  of  Cath- 
erine  might  be  a  useful,  and  would  be  a  not  uupleas- 


Z-t       THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER. 

iug  specific  in  the  present  diseased  state  of  literary 
taste.  We  have  said  that  the  hand  of  the  master 
is  traceable  in  the  characters  of  this  tale.  We  have 
also  a  good  example  of  what  was  always  a  marked 
peculiarity,  both  in  his  narrative  Avriting  and  in  his 
representations  of  composite  natures,  what  some 
one  has  called  his  "sudden  pathos,"  an  effect  of 
natural  and  unexpected  contrast  always  deeply  po- 
etical in  feeling,  such  as  the  love  of  Barry  Lyndon 
for  his  son,  the  association  of  a  murderess  eying 
her  victim,  with  images  of  beauty  and  happiness 
and  peace.  We  quote  the  passage,  although,  as  is 
always  the  case  with  the  best  things  of  the  best 
w^riters,  it  suffers  greatly  by  separation  from  the 
context,  the  force  of  the  contrast  being  almost  en- 
tirely lost :  — 

"  Mrs.  Hayes  sat  up  in  the  bed  sternly  regarding  her 
husband.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  strong  magnetic  influence 
in  wakeful  eyes  so  examining  a  sleeping  person;  do  not 
you,  as  a  boy,  remember  waking  of  briglit  summer  morn- 
ings and  finding  your  mother  looking  over  you  ?  liad  not 
the  gaze  of  her  tender  eyes  stolen  into  your  senses  long 
before  you  woke,  and  cast  over  your  slumbering  spirit  a 
sweet  spell  of  peace,  and  love,  and  fresh-springing  joy  ?  " 

In  1840,  the  Shahhy  Genteel  Sfor//  appeared  in 
Traser,  which  broke  off  sorrowfully  enough,  as  we 
are  told,  '"  at  a  sad  period  of  the  Avriter's  •wn  life," 
to  be  afterwards  taken  up  in  The  Adventures  of 
Philip.  The  story  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  nor  can 
We  read  it  without  pain,  although  we  know  that 


THACKERAY  S>    LITERARY    CAREER.        ZO 

the  after  Ibrtunes  of  the  Little  Sister  are  not  alto- 
gcther  unhappy.  But  it  shows  clear  indications 
of  growing  power  and  range  ;  Brandon,  Tufthunt, 
the  Gann  family,  and  Lord  Cinqbars,  can  fairly 
claim  the  dignity  of  ancestors.  The  Great  Hog- 
r/arti/  Blaniond  came  in  1841.  This  tale  was  al- 
ways, we  are  informed  in  the  preface  to  a  separate 
edition  in  1849,  a  great  favorite  with  the  author,  — 
a  judgment,  however,  in  which  at  first  he  stood 
almost  alone.  It  Avas  refused  by  one  magazine  be- 
fore it  found  a  place  in  Fraser ;  and  when  it  did 
appear  it  was  little  esteemed,  or,  indeed,  noticed  in 
any  way.  The  late  Mr.  John  Sterling  took  a  differ- 
ent view,  and  wrote  Mr.  Thackeray  a  letter  which 
"  at  that  time  gave  me  great  comfort  and  pleasure.'"' 
Few  will  now  venture  to  express  doubts  of  Mr. 
Sterling's  discernment.  But  in  reality  we  suspect 
that  this  story  is  not  very  popular.  It  is  said  to 
want  humor  and  power ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
in  its  beauty  of  pathos  and  tenderness  of  feeling, 
quite  indescribable,  it  reaches  a  higher  point  of  art 
than  any  of  the  minor  tales  ;  and  these  qualities 
have  gained  for  it  admirers  very  enthusiastic  if  not 
numerous.  Fraser  for  June  of  the  same  year  has 
a  most  enjoyable  paper  called  "  Memorials  of  Gor- 
mandizing," in  which  occurs  the  well-known  adap- 
tation of  the  '•'  Persicos  Odi,"  —  "  Dear  Lucy,  you 
know  what  my  wish  is  "  ;.  a  paper  better  than  any- 
thing in  the  "  Original,"   better  because  simpler 


26     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

than  Hayward's  Jrt  of  Dining,  and  Avliich  should 
certainly  be  restored  to  a  dinner-eating  world.  To 
say  nothing  of  its  quiet  humor  and  comical  earnest- 
ness, it  has  a  real  practical  value.  Tt  would  be  in- 
valuable to  all  the  hungry  Britons  in  Paris  who 
lower  our  national  character,  and,  Avhat  is  a  far 
greater  calamity,  demoralize  even  French  cooks,  by 
their  well-meant  but  ignorant  endeavors  to  dine. 
There  is  a  description  of  a  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Foy 
altogether  inimitable  ;  so  graphic  that  the  reader 
almost  fancies  himself  in  the  actual  enjoyment  of 
the  felicity  depicted.  Several  of  the  Fitz-Boodle 
papers,  which  appeared  in  1842-43,  are  omitted  in 
the  Miscellanies.  But  in  spite  of  the  judgment  of 
the  author  himself  Ave  venture  to  think  that  Mr. 
Fitz-Boodle's  love  experiences  as  recorded  in  "Miss 
Lowe  "  (October,  1842),  "  Dorothea  "  (January, 
1843),  and  "Ottilia"  (February,  1843j,  are  not 
unworthy  of  a  place  beside  the  "  Ravenswing,"  and 
should  be  preserved  as  a  warning  to  all  fervent 
young  men.  And  during  these  hard-working  years 
we  have  also  a  paper  on  "Dickens  in  France,"  con- 
taining an  amazing  description  of  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by,  as  translated  and  adapted  (bless  thee.  Bottom, 
thou  art  translated  indeed  !)  to  the  Parisian  stage, 
followed  by  a  hearty  defence  of  Boz  against  the 
criticism  of  Jules  Janiu  ;  aud  "  Bluebeard's  Ghost," 
in  its  idea  —  that  of  carrying  on  a  Avell-known 
story  beyond   its  proper  end  —  the  forerunner  of 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.       'It 

Rebecca  and  Rowena.  "Little  Travels"  is  the 
title  of  two  papers,  in  ]May  and  October,  1844,  — 
sketches  frcin  Bdgiuin,  closely  resembling,  cer- 
tainly  not  ini'erior,  to  the  roundabout  paper  called 
a  "  Week's  Holiday  ' ;  and  our  enumeration  of  his 
contributions  to  Fra-ser  closes  with  the  incompar- 
able '■  Barry  Lyndon."  "  The  Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond '"  is  better  and  purer,  and  must  therefore 
rank  higher;  but  "Barry  Lyndon"  in  its  own 
line  stands,  we  think,  unrivalled ;  immeasurably 
superior,  if  we  must  have  comparative  criticism,  to 
"  Count  Fathom  "  ;  superior  even  to  the  history  of 
"  Jonathan  Wild."  It  seems  to  us  to  equal  the 
sarcasm  and  remorseless  irony  of  Fielding's  mas- 
terpiece, with  a  wider  range  and  a  more  lively 
interest. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  connection  Avitli  Pnnch  began 
very  early  in  the  history  of  that  periodical,  and  he 
continued  a  constant  contributor  at  least  up  to 
1850.  The  acquisition  was  an  invaluable  one  to 
Mr.  Punch.  Without  undue  disparagement  of  that 
august  dignitary,  it  may  now  be  said  that  at  first 
he  was  too  exclusively  metropolitan  in  his  tone,  too 
much  devoted  to  "natural  histories"  of  medical 
students  and  London  idlers,  —  in  fact,  somewhat 
Coc-kney.  Mr.  Thackeray  at  once  stamped  it  with 
;i  different  tone  ;  made  its  satire  univei"sal,  adapted 
its  fun  to  the  appreciation  of  cultivated  men.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  connection  with  Punch  must 


28     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

have  been  of  the  utiiiost  value  to  'Mr.  Thackeray. 
He  had  the  Avidest  range,  could  write  without  re- 
straint, and  without  the  finish  and  com])lcteness 
necessary  in  more  foi-mal  publications.  The  unre- 
strained practice  in  P/aic//,  besides  the  improve- 
ment in  style  and  in  modes  of  thought  which  prac- 
tice always  gives,  probably  had  no  small  share  in 
teaching  him  wherein  his  real  strength  lay.  For 
it  is  worthy  of  notice  in  Mr.  Thackeray's  literary 
career  that  this  knowledge  did  not  come  easily  or 
soon,  but  only  after  hard  work  and  much  experi- 
ence. His  early  writings  both  in  Fraser  and 
Flinch  were  as  if  groping.  In  these  periodicals 
his  happier  efforts  come  last,  and  after  many  pre- 
ludes, —  some  of  them  broken  off  abruptly.  "  Cath- 
erine "  is  lost  in  "  George  de  Barnwell "  ;  "  Yel- 
lowplush "  and  "Fitz-Boodlc "  are  the  preambles 
to  "Barry  Lyndon"  and  "The  Hoggarty  Dia- 
mond "  ;  Fundi  s  "  Continental  Tour  "  and  the 
"Wanderings  of  the  Fat  Contributor"  close  un- 
timely, and  are  succeeded  by  the  "  Snob  Papers  " 
and  the  kindly  wisdom  of  the  elder  Brown.  Fame, 
indeed,  was  not  now  far  off;  but  ere  it  could  be 
reached  there  remained  yet  repeated  effort  and  fre- 
quent disappointment.  "With  peculiar  pleasure  we 
now  recall  the  fact  that  these  weary  days  of  strug- 
gle  and  obscurity  were  cheered  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree  by  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh. 

There  happened  to  be  placed  in  the  window  of  au 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     29 

Edinburgh  jeweUer  a  silver  statuette  of  Jfr.  Panc/i, 
with  his  dress  en  rhjiteur,  —  his  comfortable  and 
tidy  paunch,  with  all  its  buttons  ;  his  hunch ;  his 
knee-breeches,  with  their  tie ;  his  compact  little 
legs,  one  foot  a  little  forward ;  and  the  intrepid 
and  honest,  kindly  little  fellow  firmly  set  on  his 
pins,  with  his  customary  look  of  up  to  and  good  for 
anything.  In  his  hand  was  his  weapon,  a  pen  ; 
his  skull  was  an  iukhorn,  and  his  cap  its  lid.  A 
pass'jr-by  —  who  had  long  been  grateful  to  our 
author,  as  to  a  dear  unknown  and  enriching  friend, 
for  his  writings  in  Fraser  and  in  Fanch,  and  had 
longed  for  some  way  of  reaching  him,  and  telling 
him  how  his  work  was  relished  and  valued  —  be- 
thought himself  of  sending  this  inkstand  to  Mr. 
Thackeray.  He  v.ent  in,  and  asked  its  price.  " Ten 
jiUineas,  sir."  He  said  to  himself,  "  There  are  many 
who  feel  as  I  do ;  why  should  n't  we  send  him  up 
to  him  ?  I  '11  get  eighty  several  half-crowns,  and 
thai  will  do  it  "  (lie  had  ascertained  that  there 
would  be  discount  for  ready  money).  "With  the 
help  of  a  friend,  who  says  he  awoke  to  Thackeray, 
and  divined  his  great  future,  wheu  he  came,  one 
evening,  in  Fraser  for  May,  1844,  on  the  word 
Ic'uiopiiim ,^  the  half-crowns  were  soon  forthcoming, 

*  Here  is  the  passage.  It  is  from  Little  Travels  and 
Roadside  Sketches.  Why  are  they  not  republished?  We 
must  have  liis  Opera  Omnia.  He  is  on  the  top  of  the  Rich- 
mond omnibus.     "  If  1  wtre  a  great  prince,  and  rode  out- 


30     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

and  it  is  pleasant  to  remember,  that  in  the  "octo- 
Jiint  "  are  the  names  of  Lord  Jeffrey  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam Hamilton,  who  gave  their  half-crowns  with 
the  heartiest  good  will.  A  short  note  was  written 
telling  the  story.  The  little  man  in  silver  was  dnly 
packed,  and  sent  with  the  following  inscription 
round  the  base : — 

GULIELMO  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

ARM A  VI RUM QUE 
GRATI  XECNON  GRAT.E  EDINENSES 

LXXX. 

D.       D.       D. 

To  this  the  following  reply  was  made  :  — 

13  Young  Street,  Kexsingto.v  Square, 

May  11,  1848. 

"  My  dear  Sir,  —  The  anus  and  the  man  arrived  in 

safety  yesterday,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  tlie  names  of  two 

of  the  eighty  Edinburgh   friends  who  liave  taken  such  a 

side  of  coaches  (as  I  should  if  I  were  a  great  prince),  I 
would,  whether  I  smoked  or  not,  have  a  case  of  the  best 
llavanas  in  my  pocket,  not  for  my  own  smoking,  but  to 
give  them  to  the  snobs  on  the  coach,  who  smoke  tlie  vilest 
crheroots.  Tliey  jjoisoa  the  air  with  the  odor  of  their  filthy 
weeds.  A  man  at  all  easy  in  circumstances  would  spare 
himself  much  annoyance  by  taking  the  above  simple  pre- 
caution. 

"  A  gentleman  sitting  beliind  me  tapped  me  on  the  back, 
and  asked  for  a  light.  He  Mas  a  footman,  or  rather  valet. 
He  had  no  livery,  but  the  three  friends  who  accompanied 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     31 

kind  method  of  sbowing;  their  n:ood-will  towards  me.  If 
you  are  ^rati  I  aai  gratior.  Such  tokens  of  regard  &  sym- 
pathy are  very  precious  to  a  writer  like  myseh",  who  have 
some  ditticulty  still  in  making  people  understand  what  you 
have  been  good  enough  to  tind  out  in  Edinburgh,  that 
under  tiie  mask  satirical  there  walks  about  a  sentimental 
gentleman  who  means  hot  unkindly  to  any  mortal  person. 
1  can  see  exactly  the  same  expression  under  the  vizard  of 
my  liiile  friend  in  silver,  and  hope  some  day  to  shake  the 
whole  octogint  by  the  hand  gratos  Sc  grata?,  and  thank 
them  for  their  friendliness  and  regard.  I  think  I  had  best 
say  no  more  on  the  subject,  lest  1  should  be  tempted  into 
some  enthusiastic  writing  of  wi»  I  am  afraid.  I  assure  you 
these  tokens  of  what  I  can't  help  acknowledging  as  iwpu- 
larity  —  make  me  huml)le  as  well  as  grateful — and  make 
me  feel  an  almost  awful  sense  of  the  responsibility  wi»  falls 
upon  a  man  in  such  a  station.  Is  it  deserved  or  unde- 
served ?  Who  is  this  that  sets  up  to  preach  to  mankind, 
and  to  laugh  at  many  things  w^  men  reverence  ?  1  hope  I 
may  be  able  to  tell  the  truth  always,  &  to  see  it  aright,  ac- 
cording to  tlie  eyes  wb  God  Almighty  gives  me.  And  if,  in 
the  e.vercise  of  my  calling  I  get  friends,  and  find  encourage- 


hini  were  tall  men  in  pepper-and-salt  undress  jackets,  with 
a  duke's  coronet  on  their  buttons. 

"After  tapping  me  on  the  back,  and  when  he  had  finished 
liis  cheroot,  the  gentleman  produced  another  wind  instru- 
ment, which  he  called  a  '  kinopiuni,'  a  sort  of  trumpet,  on 
which  he  showed  a  great  inclination  to  play.  lie  began 
puffing  out  of  the  kinopium  an  abominable  air,  which  he 
,aid  was  the  'Duke's  March.'  It  was  played  by  the  par- 
ticular request  of  the  pepper-and-salt  gentry. 

"  The  noise  was  so  abominable,  that  even  the  coachman 
jbjected,  and  said  it  was  not  allowed  to  play  on  his  bus. 

■  Very  well,'  said  the  valet, '  we  're  only  of  the  Duke  of  B 's 

establishment,  THAT  'S  ALL.'" 


32     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

ment  and  sympathy,  I  need  not  tell  you  liow  much  I  feel 
and  am  thankful  for  this  support.  Indeed  I  can't  reply 
lightly  upon  this  subject  or  feel  otherwise  than  very  grave 
when  people  begin  to  praise  me  as  you  do.  "Wishing  you 
and  my  Edinburgh  friends  all  health  and  happiness  believe 
me  my  dear  Sir  most  faithfully  yours 

"AV.  M.  Thackeray." 

How  like  the  man  is  this  geutle  and  serious  let- 
ter, written  these  long  years  ago  !  He  tells  us 
frankly  his  '"  calling  "  :  he  is  a  preacher  to  man- 
kind. He '"laughs,"  he  does  not  sneer.  He  asks 
home  questions  at  himself  as  well  as  the  world : 
"  AVho  is  this?"  Then  his  feeling  "not  other- 
wise than  very  grave  "  when  people  begin  to  praise, 
is  true  conscientiousness.  This  servant  of  his 
Master  hoped  to  be  able  "to  tell  the  truth  always, 
and  to  see  it  aright,  according  to  the  eyes  which 
God  Almighty  gives  me,"  His  picture  by  himself 
Avill  be  received  as  correct  noir,  "  a  sentimental 
gentleman,  meaning  not  unkindly  to  any  mortal 
person,"  —  sentimental  in  its  good  old  sense,  and  a 
gentleman  in  heart  and  speech.  And  that  little 
tourh  about  enthusiastic  writing,  proving  all  the 
more  that  the  enthusiasm  itself  was  there. 

Of  his  work  in  Punch,  the  "  Ballads  of  Pleace- 
aaan  X,"  the  "  Snob  Papers,"  "  Jeames'  Diary,"  the 
"Travels  and  Sketches  in  London,"  a  "Little  Din- 
ner at  Timmins',"  are  now  familiar  to  most  readers. 
But  besides  these  he  wrote  much  which  has  found 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     33 

no  place  iu  the  MiscsUanies.  M.  de  la  Pluche 
discoursed  touching  many  matters  other  than  his 
own  rise  and  fall,  "Our  Fat  Contributor"  wan- 
dered over  the  face  of  the  earth  gaining  and  im- 
parting much  wisdom  and  experience,  if  little  in- 
formation ;  Dr.  Solomon  Pacitico  "prosed"  on 
various  things  besides  the  "pleasures  of  being  a 
Fogy  "  ;  and  even  two  of  the  "  Novels  by  Eminent 
Hands,"  Cruinfme  and  Stars  and  Stripes  have  been 
left  to  forgetfulness.  "  Mrs.  Tickletoby's  Lectures 
on  the  History  of  England,"  in  Vol.  III.  are  es- 
pecially good  reading.  Had  they  been  completed, 
they  would  have  formed  a  valuable  contribution  to 
the  philosophy  of  history.  His  contributions  to 
Punch  became  less  frequent  about  1S50,  but  the 
connection  was  not  entirely  broken  off  tiU  much 
later;  we  remember,  in  1854,  the  "Letters  from 
the  Seat  of  War,  by  our  own  Bashi-Bazouk,"  who 
was,  in  foct,  Major  Gahagan  again,  always  fore- 
most in  his  country's  cause.  To  the  last,  as  ^[r. 
Punch  has  himself  informed  us,  he  continued  to  be 
an  adviser  and  warm  friend,  and  was  a  constant 
guest  at  the  Aveekly  sj/tuposia. 

In  addition  to  all  this  work  for  periodicals,  Mr. 
Thackeray  had  ventured  on  various  independent 
publications.  We  have  already  alluded  to  Flore  et 
Zephyr,  his  first  attempt.  In  1840,  he  again  tried 
fortune  with  "The  Paris  Sketch-Book,"  which  is 
at  least  remarkable  for  a  dedication  possessing  the 


34     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

quite  peculiar  merit  of  expressing  real  feeling.  It 
is  addresssd  to  M.  Aretz,  Tailor,  27  Hue  Richelieu, 
Paris  ;  and  we  quote  it  the  more  readily  that,  ow- 
iug  to  the  failure  of  these  volumes  to  attract  public 
attention,  the  rare  virtues  of  that  gentleman  have 
been  less  ^Yidely  celebrated  than  they  deserve  :  — 

"  SiK,  —  It  becomes  every  man  in  his  station  to  acknowl- 
edge and  praise  virtue  wlieresosver  lie  may  find  it,  and  to 
point  it  out  for  the  admiration  and  example  of  his  fellow- 
men. 

"  Some  montlis  since,  when  you  presented  to  the  writer 
of  these  pages  a  small  account  for  coats  and  pantaloons 
manufactured  l)y  you,  and  when  you  were  met  by  a  state- 
ment from  your  debtor  that  an  immediate  settlement  of  your 
bill  would  be  extremely  inconvenient  to  him,  your  reply  was, 
'  Mon  dieu,  sir,  let  not  that  annoy  you;  if  you  want  money, 
as  a  gentleman  often  does  in  a  strange  country,  I  have  a 
thousand-franc  note  at  my  house,  which  is  quite  at  your  ser- 
vice.' History  or  experience,  sir,  makes  us  acquainted  with 
so  few  actions  that  can  be  compared  to  yours,  —  an  offer  like 
this  from  a  stranger  and  a  tailor  seems  to  me  so  astonishing, 
—  that  you  must  pardon  me  for  making  your  virtue  pul)lic, 
and  acquainting  the  English  nation  with  your  merit  and 
your  name.  Let  me  add,  sir,  that  you  live  on  the  first  floor ; 
that  your  cloths  and  fit  are  excellent,  and  your  charges 
moderate  and  just;  and,  as  a  humble  tribute  of  my  admira- 
tion, permit  me  to  lay  these  volumes  at  your  feet. 

"  Your  obliged  faithful  servant, 

"M.    A.    TIT5IARSTI." 

Some  of  the  papers  in  these  two  volumes  were 
reprints,  as  "  Little  Poinsinet"  and  "Cartouche," 
from  Fraser  for  1839;  "Mary  Ancel,"  from  T/ie 
New  Monthly  for  1839 ;  others  appeared  then  for 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     35 

the  first  time.  Tbey  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  of 
unequal  merit.  "A  Caution  to  Travellers"  is  a 
swindliug  business,  afterwards  narrated  in  Penden- 
nls,  by  Aniory  or  Altamont  as  among  his  own  re- 
spectable adventures;  "Mary  Ancel "  and  "The 
Painter's  Bargain "  are  amusing  stories  ;  while  a 
"  Gambler's  Death "  is  a  tale  quite  awful  in  the 
every-day  reality  of  its  horror.  There  is  much 
forcible  criticism  on  the  French  school  of  painting 
and  of  novel-writing,  and  two  papers  especially 
good,  called  "Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris," 
and  "Meditations  at  Versailles,"  the  former  of 
Avhich  gives  a  picture  of  Parisian  manners  and  feel- 
ing in  the  Orleans  times  in  no  way  calculated  to 
make  us  desire  those  days  back  again  ;.  the  latter  an 
expression  of  the  thoughts  called  up  by  the  splendor 
of  Versailles  and  the  beauty  of  the  Petit  Trianon, 
in  its  truth,  sarcasm,  and  half-melancholy,  worthy 
of  his  best  days.  All  these  the  public,  we  think, 
would  gladly  Avelcome  in  a  more  accessible  form. 
Of  the  rest  of  the  Sketch-Book  the  same  can  hardly 
be  said,  and  yet  we  should  ourselves  much  regret 
never  to  have  seen,  for  example,  the  four  graceful 
imitations  of  Beranger. 

The  appreciative  and  acquisitive  tendencies  of  our 
Yankee  fi-iends  forced,  we  are  told,  independent  au^ 
thorship  on  Lord  Macaulay  and  Sir  James  Stephen. 
We  owe  to  tLe  same  cause  the  publication  of  the 
"Comic  Tales  and  Sketches  "  in  1841 ;  Mr.  Yellow- 


36     Thackeray's  literary  career, 

pliisli's  nftmoirs  having  been  more  than  once  re- 
printed in  America  before  that  date.  The  memoirs 
were  accompanied  with  "  The  Fatal  Boots  "  (from 
the  Comic  Almanack) ;  the  '•'  Bedford  Row  Con- 
spiracy," and  the  Reminiscences  of  that  astonishing 
Major  Gahagan  (both  from  the  Neio  Montkhj  Mag- 
azine, 1838-1840,  a  periodical  then  in  great  glory, 
Avith  Hood,  Marryatt,  Jerrold,  and  Laman  Blan- 
chard  among  its  contribntors)  ;  all  now  so  known 
and  so  appreciated  that  the  failure  of  this  third 
effort  seems  altogether  unaccountable.  In  1843, 
however,  the  "  Irish  Sketch-Book  "  Avas,  Ave  believe, 
tolerably  successful;  and  in  1846  the  "Journey 
from  CornhiU  to  Grand  Cairo  "  Avas  stiU  more  so ; 
in  which  year  also  VanUy  Fair  began  the  career 
which  has  giA'en  him  his  place  and  name  in  English 
literature. 

"We  have  gone  into  these  details  concerning  Mr, 
Thackeray's  early  literary  life,  not  only  because 
they  seem  to  us  interesting  and  instructive  in  them- 
selves ;  not  only  because  Ave  think  his  severe  judg- 
ment rejecting  so  many  of  his  former  efforts  should 
in  several  instances  be  reversed ;  but  because  they 
give  us  much  aid  in  arriving  at  a  true  estimate  of 
his  genius.  He  began  literature  as  a  profession 
early  in  life,  —  about  the  age  of  tAAcnty-five,  —  but 
even  then  he  was,  as  he  says  of  Addison,  "  fuU  and 
ripe."  Yet  it  AAas  long  before  he  attained  the  meas- 
ure of  his  strength,  or  discovered  the  true  bent  of 


r 


I 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     37 

Lis  powers.  His  was  no  sudden  leap  into  fame. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  by  slow  degrees,  and  after 
many  and  vain  endeavors,  that  he  attained  to  any- 
thing like  success.  "Were  it  only  to  show  how  hard 
these  endeavors  were,  the  above  retrospect  would  be 
well  worth  while  ;  not  that  the  retrospect  is  any- 
thing like  exhaustive.  In  addition  to  all  we  have 
mentioned,  he  wrote  for  the  Westminster,  for  the 
Examiner  and  the  Times;  was  connected  with  the 
Constitutional,  and  also,  it  is  said,  with  the  Torch 
and  the  Parthenon,  — these  last  three  being  papers 
which  enjoyed  a  brief  existence.  No  man  ever  more 
decidedly  refuted  the  silly  notion  which  disassociates 
genius  from  labor.  His  industry  must  have  been 
unremitting,  for  he  worked  slowly,  rarely  retouch- 
ing, writing  always  with  great  thought  and  habit- 
ual correctness  of  expression.  His  writing  would 
of  itself  show  this  ;  always  neat  and  plain  ;  capable 
of  great  beauty  and  minuteness.  He  used  to  say 
that  if  all  trades  failed,  he  would  earn  sixpences  by 
writing  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Creed  (not  the 
Athanasian)  in  the  size  of  one.  He  considered  and 
practised  caligraphy  as  one  of  the  fine  arts,  as  did 
Porson  and  Dr.  Thomas  Young.  He  was  contin- 
ually catching  new  ideas  from  passing  things,  and 
seems  frequently  to  have  carried  his  work  in  his 
pocket,  and  when  a  thought,  or  a  tura,  or  a  word 
struck  him,  it  was  at  once  recorded.  In  the  ful- 
ness of  his  experience,  he  was  well  pleased  when  he 


38     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

wrote  six  pages  of  Esmotid  in  a  day ;  and  he  al- 
ways worked  in  the  day,  not  at  night.  He  never 
threw  away  his  ideas ;  if  at  any  time  they  passed 
unheeded,  or  were  carelessly  expressed,  he  repeats 
them,  or  works  them  up  more  tellingly.  In  these 
earlier  writings  we  often  stumble  upon  the  germ  of 
an  idea,  or  a  story,  or  a  character  with  which  his 
greater  works  have  made  us  already  familiar ;  thus 
the  swindling  scenes  during  the  sad  days  of  Becky's 
decline  and  fall,  and  the  Baden  sketches  in  the 
Newcomes,  the  Deuceaces,  and  Punters,  and  Loders, 
are  all  in  the  Yellov-plush  Papers  and  the  Pans 
Sketch-Book ;  the  University  pictures  of  Penden^ 
nis  are  sketched,  though  slightly,  in  the  Shahby- 
Genteel  Story;  the  anecdote  of  the  child  whose 
admirer  of  seven  will  learn  that  she  has  left  town 
'■'  from  the  newspapers,"  is  transferred  from  the 
"  Book  of  Snobs  "  to  Ethel  Newcome ;  another 
child,  in  a  different  rank  of  life,  whose  acquisition 
of  a  penny  gains  for  her  half  a  dozen  sudden  fol- 
lowers and  friends,  appears,  we  think,  three  times ; 
"  Canute,"  neglected  in  Punch,  is  incorporated  in 
Rebecca  a/id  Rowena.  And  his  names,  on  which 
he  bestowed  no  ordinary  care,  and  which  have  a 
felicity  almost  deserving  an  article  to  themselves, 
are  repeated  again  and  again.  He  had  been  ten 
years  engaged  in  literary  work  before  the  concep- 
tion of  Vanity  Fair  grew  up.  Fortunately  for  him 
it  was  declined  by  at  least  one  magazine,  and,  as 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     39 

we  can  well  believe,  not  without  much  anxiety  and 
many  misgivings  he  sent  it  out  to  the  world  alone. 
Its  progress  was  at  first  slow ;  but  we  cannot  think 
its  success  was  ever  doubtful.  A  friendly  notice  in 
the  Edhihunjh,  when  eleven  numbers  had  appeared, 
did  something,  the  book  itself  did  the  rest ;  and 
before  Van'tt;/  Fair  was  completed,  the  reputation 
of  its  author  was  established. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  later  literary  life  is  familiar  to 
all.  It  certainly  was  not  a  life  of  idleness.  Vanitij 
Fair,  Fendermis,  Esmond,  The  IS^ewcomes,  The  Vir- 
ginians, Philip ;  the  Lectures  on  the  "  Humorists  " 
and  the  "  Georges  "  ;  and  that  wonderful  series  of 
Christmas  stories,  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball,  Our  Street, 
Br.  Birch,  Ptelecca  and  Rovjena,  and  The  Rose  and 
the  Pang,  represent  no  small  labor  on  the  part  of 
the  writer,  no  small  pleasure  and  improvement  on 
the  part  of  multitudes  of  readers.  For  the  sake  of 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  he  reverted  to  the  editorial 
avocations  of  his  former  days,  happily  with  a  very 
different  result  both  on  the  fortunes  of  the  periodi- 
cal and  his  own,  but,  we  should  think,  with  nearly 
as  much  discomfort  to  himself.  The  public,  how- 
ever, were  the  gainers,  if  only  they  owe  to  this  ed- 
itorship the  possession  of  Lovel  the  Widov:er.  "We 
believe  that  Lovel  was  Avritten  for  the  stage,  and 
was  refused  by  the  raanogement  of  the  Olympic 
about  the  year  1854.  Doubtless  the  decision  was 
wise,  and  Lovel  might  have  failed  as  a  comedv. 


40     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

But  as  a  tale  it  is  quite  unique,  —  full  of  humor, 
and  curious  experience  of  life,  and  insight ;  witli  a 
condensed  vigor,  and  grotesque  effects  and  situa- 
tions which  betray  its  dramatic  origin.  The  tone 
of  many  parts  of  the  book,  particularly  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  emotions  of  a  disappointed  lover,  shows 
the  full  maturity  of  the  author's  powers ;  but  there 
is  a  daring  and  freshness  about  other  parts  of  it 
which  would  lead  us  to  refer  the  dramatic  sketch 
even  to  an  earlier  date  than  1854.  This  imperfect 
sketch  of  his  literary  labors  may  be  closed,  not  in- 
appropriately, with  the  description  which  his  "faith- 
ful old  Gold  Pen  "  give's  us  of  the  various  tasks  he 
set  it  to  :  — 

"  Since  he  my  faitliful  service  did  engage 
To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage, 
I  've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  ar.d  page. 

"  Caricatures  T  scribhled  have,  and  rhymes, 
And  dinner-cards,  and  picture  pantomimes, 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 

"  I  've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 
The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pain; 
Tlie  idle  word  that  he  'd  wish  back  again. 

"  I  've  helped  him  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread ; 
To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head ; 
And  make  your  laughter  when  his  own  heart  bled, 

"  Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago, 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceased  to  flow, 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long  laid  low ; 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     41 

"  Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball, 
Tradesman's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account  due  Christmas  last,  —  I  've  answered  all. 

"  Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half- 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyan's  for  an  autograph ; 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh, 

"  Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff. 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough. 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 

"  Xor  pass  the  -srords  as  idle  phrases  by ; 
Stranger  1  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 
yor  signed  the  page  that  registered  a  lie." 

"En  realite,"  says  the  writer  of  an  iuterestincj 
notice  in  Le  Temj)s,  '"'  I'auteur  de  Vanitij  Fair  (la 
Foire  aux  vanites)  est  un  satiriste,  un  moraliste,  un 
humoriste,  auquel  il  a  manque,  pour  etre  tout-a-fait 
grand,  d'etre  un  artiste.  Je  dis  tout-a-fait  grand ; 
car  s'il  est  douteux  que,  corame  humoriste,  on  le 
puisse  comparer  soit  a  Lamb,  soit  a  Sterne,  il  est 
bien  certain,  du  moins,  que  comme  satiriste,  il  ne 
connait  pas  de  superieurs,  pas  meme  Dry  den,  pas 
meme  Swift,  pas  meme  Pope.  Et  ce  qui  le  dis- 
tingue d'eux,  ce  qui  I'eleve  au  dessus  d'eux,  ce  qui  fait 
de  lui  un  genie  essentiellement  original,  c'est  que  sa 
colere,  pour  qui  est  capable  d'en  penetrer  le  secret, 
n'est  au  fond  que  la  re'action  d'une  nature  tendre, 
furieus3  d'avoir  ete  de'sappointe'e."  Beyond  doubt 
the  French  critic  is  right  in  holding  Thackeray's 


42     thackekay's  literary  career. 

special  powers  to  have  been  those  of  a  satirist  or  hu 
morist.  We  shall  form  but  a  very  inadequate  co\  ■ 
ception  of  his  genius  if  we  look  at  him  exclusively', 
or  even  chiefly,  as  a  novelist.  His  gifts  Avere  not 
those  of  a  teller  of  stories.  He  made  up  a  story  in 
which  his  characters  played  their  various  parts,  be- 
cause the  requirement  of  interest  is  at  the  present 
day  imperative,  and  because  stories  are  Avell  paid  for, 
and  also  because  to  do  this  was  to  a  certain  extent 
an  amusement  to  himself ;  but  it  Avas  often,  Ave  sus- 
pect, a  great  Avorry  and  puzzle  to  him,  and  never 
resulted  in  any  marked  success.  It  is  not  so  much 
that  he  is  a  bad  constructor  of  a  plot,  as  that  his 
stories  have  no  plot  at  all.  AVe  say  nothing  of  such 
masterpieces  of  constructive  art  as  Tom  Jones;  he 
is  far  from  reaching  even  the  careless  poAver  of  the 
stories  of  Scott.  None  of  his  novels  end  with  the 
orthodox  marriage  of  hero  and  heroine,  except  Pen- 
dennis,  AA'hich  might  just  as  well  have  ended  without 
it.  The  stereotyped  matrimonial  wind-up  in  novels 
can  of  com'se  very  easily  be  made  game  of;  but  it 
has  a  rational  meaning.  "When  a  man  gets  a  Avife 
and  a  certain  number  of  hundreds  a  year,  he  groAvs 
stout,  and  his  adventures  are  over.  Hence  novelists 
naturally  take  this  as  the  crisis  in  a  man's  life  to 
Avhich  all  that  has  gone  before  leads  up.  But  for 
Mr.  Thackeray's  purposes  a  man  or  Avoman  is  as 
good  after  marriage  as  before,  —  indeed,  rather  bet- 
ter.    To  some  extent  this  is  intentional ;  a  charac- 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     43 

t2r,  as  he  says  somewhere,  is  too  valuable  a  property 
to  b3  easily  parted  with.  H:s:dcs,  he  is  not  quite 
persuaded  that  imrringe  concludes  all  that  is  in- 
terestino;  in  the  life  of  a  man  :  "  As  the  hero  and 
heroine  pass  the  matrimonial  barrier,  the  novelist 
generally  drops  the  curtain,  as  if  the  drama  were 
over  then,  the  doubts  and  struggles  of  life  ended ; 
as  if,  once  landed  in  the  marriage  country,  all  were 
green  and  pleasant  there,  and  wife  and  husband  had 
nothing  but  to  link  each  other's  arms  together,  and 
wander  gently  downwards  towards  old  age  in  happy 
and  perfect  fruition."  But  he  demurs  to  this  view^ ; 
and  as  he  did  not  look  on  a  man's  early  life  as  merely 
an  introduction  to  matrimony,  so  neither  did  he  re- 
gard that  event  as  a  linal  conclusion.  Rejecting, 
then,  this  natural  and  ordinary  catastrophe,  he 
makes  no  effort  to  provide  another.  His  stories 
stop,  but  they  don't  come  to  an  end.  There  seems 
no  reason  why  they  should  not  go  on  further,  or 
why  they  shoidd  not  have  ceased  before.  Nor  does 
this  want  of  finish  result  from  weariness  on  the  part 
of  the  Avriter,  or  from  that  fear  of  weariness  on  the 
part  of  readers  which  Mr.  Jedediah  Cleishbotham  ex- 
presses to  jNliss  Martha  Buskbody  :  '"'  Really,  madam, 
you  must  be  aware  that  every  volume  of  a  narrative 
tm-ns  less  and  less  interesting  as  the  author  draws 
to  a  conclusion ;  just  like  your  tea,  which,  though 
excellent  hyson,  is  necessarily  w^eaker  and  more  in- 
sipid in  the  last  cup.     Now,  as  I  think  the  one  is 


44     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

by  no  means  improved  by  the  luscious  lump  of  half- 
dissolved  sugar  usually  found  at  the  bottom  of  it,  so 
I  am  of  opinion  that  a  history,  growing  already 
vapid,  is  but  dully  crutched  up  by  a  detail  of  cir- 
cumstances which  every  reader  must  have  antici- 
pated, even  though  the  author  exhaust  on  them  every 
floAvery  epithet  in  the  language."  It  arises  from 
the  want  of  a  plot,  from  the  Avant  often  of  any  hero 
or  heroine  round  whom  a  plot  can  centre.  Most 
novelists  know  how  to  let  the  life  out  towards  the 
end,  so  that  the  story  dies  quite  naturally,  having 
been  wound  up  for  so  long.  But  his  airy  nothings, 
if  once  life  is  breathed  into  them,  and  they  ai-e 
made  to  speak  and  act,  and  love  and  hate,  will  not 
die ;  on  the  contrary,  they  grow  in  force  and  vital- 
ity under  our  very  eye  •  the  curtain  comes  sheer 
down  upon  them  when  they  are  at  their  best.  Hence 
his  trick  of  re-introducing  his  characters  in  subse- 
quent works,  as  fresh  and  lifelike  as  ever.  He  does 
not  indeed  carry  this  so  far  as  Dumas,  whose  char- 
acters are  traced  with  edifying  minuteness  of  detail 
from  boyhood  to  the  grave  ;  Balzac  or  our  own  Trol- 
lope  afford,  perhaps,  a  closer  comparison,  although 
neither  of  these  Avriters  —  certainly  not  Mv.  Trol- 
lope — rivals  Thackeray  in  the  skill  with  which 
such  reappearances  are  managed.  In  the  way  of 
delineation  of  character  we  know  of  few  things 
more  striking  in  its  consistency  and  truth  than  Bea- 
trix Esmond  grown  into  the  Baroness  Bernstein  ; 
the  attempt  was  hazardous,  the  success  complete. 


I 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     45 

Yet  this  deficiency  in  constructive  art  was  not  in- 
consistent with  dramatic  power  of  the  highest  order. 
Curiously  enough,  if  his  stories  for  the  most  jjart 
end  abruptly,  they  also  for  the  most  part  open  well. 
Of  some  of  them,  as  Pendennis  and  the  Neiccomes, 
the  beginnings  arc  peculiarly  felicitous.  But  his 
dramatic  power  is  mainly  displayed  in  his  inven- 
tion and  representation  of  character.  In  invention 
his  range  is  perhaps  limited,  though  less  so  than  is 
commonly  said.  He  has  not,  of  course,  the  sweep 
of  Scott,  and,  even  where  a  comparison  is  fairly 
open,  he  does  not  show  Scott's  creative  faculty; 
thus,  good  as  his  high  life  below  stairs  may  be,  he 
has  given  us  no  Jenny  Dennison.  He  does  not 
attempt  artisan  life  like  George  Eliot,  nor,  like 
other  writers  of  the  day,  affect  rural  simplicity,  or 
delineate  provincial  peculiarities  (the  Malligan  and 
Costigan  are  national),  or  represent  special  views  or 
opinions.  But  he  does  none  of  these  things,  —  not 
so  much  because  his  range  is  limited  as  because  his 
art  is  universal.  There  are  many  phases  of  human 
life  on  which  he  has  not  touched  ;  few  developments 
of  human  nature.  He  has  caught  those  traits  which 
are  common  to  all  mankind,  peer  and  artisan  alike, 
and  he  may  safely  omit  minor  points  of  distinction. 
It  is  a  higher  art  to  draw  men,  than  to  draw  noble- 
men or  workingmen.  If  the  specimen  of  our  na- 
ture be  brought  before  us,  it  matters  little  whether 
it  be   dressed  in   a  lace   coat   or  a  fustian  jacket. 


46     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

Among  novelists  lie  stands,  in  this  joarticular, 
hardly  second  to  Scott.  His  pages  are  tilled  with 
those  touches  of  nature  which  make  the  whole 
world  kin.  iUmost  eveiy  passion  and  emotion  of 
the  heart  of  man  finds  a  place  in  his  pictures. 
These  pictures  are  taken  mainly  from  the  upper 
and  middle  classes  of  society,  with  an  occasional 
excursion  into  Bohemia,  sometimes  even  into  depths 
beyond  that  pleasant  land  of  lawlessness.  In  va- 
riety, truth,  and  consistency,  they  are  unrivalled. 
They  are  not  caricatures,  they  are  not  men  of 
humors ;  they  are  the  men  and  women  whom  we 
daily  meet ;  they  are,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word,  rei)resentative ;  and  yet  they  are  drawn  so 
sharply  and  finely  that  we  never  could  mistake  or 
confound  them.  Pendennis,  Clive  Nevvcome,  Philip, 
are  all  placed  in  circumstances  very  much  alike,  and 
yet  they  are  discriminated  throughout  by  delicate 
and  certain  touches,  which  we  hardly  perceive  even 
while  we  feel  their  effect.  Only  one  English  wri- 
ter of  fiction  can  be  compared  to  ^Mr.  Thackeray  in 
this  power  of  distinguishing  ordinary  characters,  — 
the  authoress  of  Fride  and  Prejudice.  But  with 
this  power  he  combines,  in  a  very  singular  manner, 
the  power  of  seizing  humors,  or  peculiarities,  when 
it  so  pleases  him.  Jos.  Sc^dley,  Charles  Honey  nr.m, 
Fred  Bayham,  ]Major  Pendennis,  arc  so  marked  as 
to  be  fairly  classed  as  men  of  humors ;  and  in  what 
a  masterly  way  the  nature  in  each  is  caught  au'J 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      47 

held  firm  throughout !  In  national  peculiarities  he 
i?  especially  happy.  The  Irish  he  knows  well :  the 
FreuL-h,  perhaps,  still  better.  How  wonderfully 
clever  is  the  sketch  of  "Mary,  Queen  of  Scots" 
and  the  blustering  Gascon,  and  the  rest  of  her  dis- 
reputable court  at  Baden !  And  what  can  those 
who  object  to  Thackeray's  women  say  of  that  gen- 
tle lady  3Iadame  de  Florae,  —  a  sketch  of  ideal 
beauty,  with  her  early,  never-forgotten  sorrow,  her 
pure,  holy  resignation  ?  To  her  inimitable  son  no 
•vords  can  do  justice.  The  French-English  of  his 
speech  would  make  the  fortune  of  any  ordinary 
novel.  It  is  as  unique,  and  of  a  more  delicate 
humor,  than  the  orthography  of  Jeames.  Per- 
haps more  remarkable  than  even  his  invention  is 
the  fidelity  with  which  the  conception  of  his  char- 
acters is  preserved.  This  never  fails.  They  seem 
to  act,  as  it  were,  of  themselves.  The  author 
having  once  projected  them,  appears  to  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  them.  They  act  somehow 
according  to  their  own  natures,  unprompted  by  him, 
and  beyond  his  control.  He  tells  us  this  himself  in 
one  of  those  delightful  and  most  characteristic  Kouud- 
about  Papers,  which  are  far  too  much  and  too  gen- 
erally undervalued :  "  I  have  been  surprised  at  the 
observations  made  by  some  of  my  characters.  It 
seems  as  if  an  occult  power  was  moving  the  pen. 
The  personage  does  or  says  something,  and  I  ask, 
How  the  dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of  that"?  .... 


48     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

We  spake  anon  of  tlie  inflated  style  of  some  writers. 
What  also  if  there  is  an  offlcded  style;  when  a  wri- 
ter is  like  a  Pythoness,  or  her  oracle  tripod,  and 
mighty  words,  words  which  he  cannot  help,  come 
hlowing,  and  bellowing,  and  whistling,  and  moaning 
through  the  speaking  pipes  of  his  bodily  organ?" 
Take  one  of  his  most  subtle  sketches,  —  though  it 
is  but  a  sketch,  —  Elizabeth,  in  Lovel  the  Wid- 
ower. The  woman  has  a  character,  and  a  strong 
one ;  she  shows  it,  and  acts  up  to  it ;  but  it  is  as 
great  a  puzzle  to  us  as  the  character  of  Hamlet ; 
the  author  himself  does  not  understand  it.  This  is, 
of  course,  art;  and  it  is  the  highest  perfection  of 
art ;  it  is  the  art  of  Shakespeare ;  and  hence  it  is 
that  Thackeray's  novels  are  interesting  irrespective 
of  the  plot,  or  story,  or  whatever  we  choose  to  call 
it.  His  characters  come  often  without  much  pur- 
pose :  they  go  often  without  much  reason  ;  but  they 
are  always  welcome,  and  for  the  most  part  we  wish 
them  well.  Dumas  makes  up  for  the  want  of  a  plot 
by  wild  incident  and  spasmodic  writing  ;  Thackeray 
makes  us  forget  a  like  deficiency  by  the  far  higher 
means  of  true  conceptions,  and  consistent  delinea- 
tions of  human  nature.  Esmond,  alone  of  all  his 
more  important  fictions,  is  artistically  constructed. 
The  marriage  indeed  of  Esmond  and  Lady  Castle- 
wood  marks  no  crisis  in  their  lives ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  might  have  happened  at  any  time,  and 
makes  little  change  in  their  relations;  but  the  work 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     49 

derives  completeness  from  the  skill  Avitli  which  the 
events  of  the  time  are  connected  with  the  fortunes 
of  the  chief  actors  in  the  story,  —  the  historical  plot 
leading  up  to  the  catastrophe  of  Bjatrix,  the  failure 
of  the  conspiracy,  and  the  exile  of  the  conspirators, 
in  Esmond,  too,  Thackeray's  truth  to  nature  is  es- 
pecially conspicuous.  In  all  his  hooks  the  dialogue 
is  surprising  in  its  naturalness,  in  its  direct  bearing 
on  the  subject  in  hand.  Never  before,  we  think,  in 
fiction  did  characters  so  uniformly  speak  exactly  like 
the  men  and  women  of  real  life.  In  Esmond — 
owing  to  the  distance  of  the  scene  —  this  T'are  ex- 
cellence was  not  easy  of  attainment,  yet  it  has  been 
attained.  Every  one  not  only  acts,  but  speaks  in 
accordance  certainly  with  the  ways  of  the  time,  but 
always  like  a  rational  human  being ;  there  is  no 
trace  of  that  unnaturalness  which  otFends  us  even 
in  Scott's  historical  novels,  and  which  substitutes 
for  intelligible  converse  long.harangi\es  in  pompous 
diction,  garnished  with  strange  oaths,  — a  style  of 
communicating  their  ideas  never  adopted,  we  may 
be  very  sure,  by  any  mortals  upon  this  earth.  Add 
to  these  artistic  excellences  a  tenderness  of  feeling 
and  a  beauty  of  style  which  even  Thackeray  has  not 
elsewhere  equalled,  and  we  come  to  understand  why 
the  best  critics  look  on  Esmond  as  his  masterpiece. 
Nor,  in  speaking  of  Thackeray  as  a  novelist, 
should  we  forget  to  mention  —  though  but  in  a 
word — his  command  of  the   element  of  tragedy. 


50     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

The  parting;  of  George  Osborne  with  Amelia,  the 
stern  grief  of  old  Osborne  for  the  loss  of  his  son, 
the  later  life  of  Bjati-ix  Esmond,  the  death  of 
Colonel  Newcome,  are  in  their  various  styles  per- 
fect, and  remarkable  for  nothing  more  than  for  the 
good  taste  which  controls  and  subdues  them  all. 

But,  as  we  said  before,  to  criticise  Mr.  Thackeray 
as  a  novelist  is  to  criticise  what  was  in  him  only  an 
accident.  lie  wrote  stories,  because  to  do  so  was 
the  mode  ;  his  stories  are  natural  and  naturally  sus- 
tained, because  he  could  do  nothing  otherwise  than 
naturally ;  but  to  be  a  teller  of  stories  was  not  his 
vocation.  His  great  object  in  writing  was  to  ex- 
press himself,  —  his  notions  of  life,  all  the  compli- 
cations and  variations  which  can  be  plnyed  by  a 
master  on  this  one  everlasting  theme.  Composite 
human  nature  as  it  is,  that  sins  and  sutfers,  enjoys 
and  does  virtuously,  that  was  "  the  main  haunt  and 
region  of  his  song."  To  estimate  him  fairly,  we 
must  look  at  him  as  taking  this  wider  range  ;  nuist 
consider  him  as  a  humorist,  using  the  word  as  he 
used  it  himself.  "The  humorous  writer  professes 
to  awaken  and  direct  your  love,  your  pity,  your 
kindness ;  your  scorn  for  untruth,  pretension,  im- 
\-osture ;  your  tenderness  for  the  weak,  the  poor, 
he  oppressed,  the  unhappy.  To  the  best  of  his 
nieans  and  ability,  he  comments  on  all  the  ordinary 
actions  and  passions  of  life  almost.  He  takes  upon 
himself  to  be  the  week-day  preacher,  so  to  spef.k. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     51 

Accordingly,  as  he  finds  and  speaks  and  feels  the 
truth  best,  we  regard  him,  esteem  him,  —  some- 
times luve  him."  Adopting  this  point  of  view, 
and  applying  this  standard,  it  seems  to  us  that  no 
one  of  the  great  humorists  of  whom  he  has  s2)okeu 
is  desei*ving  equally  with  himself  of  our  respect, 
esteem,  aud  love ;  — respect  for  intellectual  power, 
placing  him  on  a  level  even  with  Swift  and  Pope ; 
esteem  for  manliness  as  thorough  as  the  manliness 
of  Fielding,  and  rectitude  as  unsullied  as  the  recti- 
tude of  Addison  ;  love  for  a  nature  as  kindly  as  that 
of  Steele.  Few  will  deny  the  keen  insight,  the  pas- 
sion for  truth  of  the  week-day  preacher  we  have 
lost ;  few  will  now  deny  the  kindliness  of  his  dis- 
position, but  many  will  contend  that  the  kindliness 
was  too  much  restrained  ;  that  the  passion  for  truth 
was  allowed  to  degenerate  into  a  love  of  detecting 
hidden  faults.  The  sermons  on  women  have  been 
objected  to  with  especial  vehemence  and  especial 
want  of  reason.  Xo  one  who  has  read  Mr.  Brown's 
letters  to  his  nephew,  —  next  to  the  Snob  Papers 
and  Sydney  Smith's  Lectures,  the  best  modern  work 
on  moral  philosophy,  —  Avill  deny  that  Mr.  Thack- 
eray can  at  least  appreciate  good  women,  and  de- 
scribe them  :  — 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  mean  to  tell  yon  tliat  tlicve  are  no  M'omen 
in*  the  world,  vnlg:av  and  ill-liumored,  rancorous  and  nar- 
row-minded, mean  schemers,  son-in-law  hunters,  slaves  of 
fashion,  hypocrites;  hut  I  do  respect,  admire,  and  almost 


52     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

worship  good  women ;  and  I  tliiuk  there  is  a  very  fair  miiu- 
ber  of  such  to  be  found  in  this  world,  and  I  have  no  doubt, 
in  e^  ery  educated  Englishman's  circle  of  society,  whether 
he  finds  that  circle  in  palaces  in  Belgravia  and  May  Fair, 
in  snug  little  suburban  villas,  in  ancient  comfortable  old 
Bloomsbury,  or  in  back  parlors  behind  the  shop.  It  has 
been  my  fortune  to  meet  with  excellent  English  ladies  in 
every  one  of  these  places,  —  wives  graceful  and  affectionate, 
matrons  tender  and  good,  daugiitcrs  happy  and  pure-mind- 
ed ;  and  I  urge  the  society  of  such  to  you,  because  I  defy 
you  to  think  evil  in  their  company.  AValk  into  the  drawing- 
room  of  Lady  Z.,  that  great  lady:  look  at  her  charming 
face,  and  hear  lier  voice.  You  know  that  she  can't  but  be 
good,  with  such  a  face  and  such  a  voice.  She  is  one  of 
those  fortunate  beings  on  whom  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
bestow  all  sorts  of  its  most  precious  gifts  and  richest' 
worldly  favors.  With  what  grace  she  receives  you ;  with 
Avhat  a  frank  kindness  and  natural  sweetness  and  dignity ! 
Her  looks,  her  motions,  her  words,  her  thoughts,  all  seem 
to  be  l)eautiful  and  harmonious  quite.  See  her  with  lier 
children ;  what  woman  can  be  more  simple  and  loving  ? 
After  you  have  talked  to  her  for  a  while,  you  very  likely 
find  that  she  is  ten  times  as  mcU  read  as  you  are :  she  has 
a  luindred  accomplislinients  wliich  she  is  not  in  the  least 
anxious  to  show  off,  and  makes  no  more  account  of  them 
than  of  her  diamonds,  or  of  the  splendor  round  about  lier, 
—  to  all  of  Avhich  she  is  born,  and  has  a  happy,  admirable 
claim  of  nature  and  possessioii,  —  admirable  and  happy  for 
her  and  for  us  too ;  for  is  it  not  a  happiness  for  us  to  ad- 
mire her?  Does  anybody  grudge  lier  e.xccUence  to  that 
paragon?  Sir,  we  may  be  thankful  to  be  admitted  to  con- 
teniplate  such  consummate  goodness  and  beauty ;  and  as,  in 
looking  at  a  tine  landscape  or  a  fine  work  of  art,  every 
generous  heart  must  be  delighted  and  imjjroved,  and  ought 
to  feel  grateful  afterwards,  so  one  may  feel  charmed  and 
thankful  for  having  the  opportunity  of  knowing  an  almost 
perfect  woman.    Madam,  if  the  gout  ami  the  custom  of  the 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      53 

world  permitted,  I  would  kneel  down  aad  kiss  the  hem  of 
your  ladyship's  rohe.  To  see  your  gracious  face  is  a  com- 
fort, —  to  see  you  walk  to  your  carriage  is  a  holiday.  Drive 
her  faithfully,  0  tiiou  silver-wigged  coachaian  I  drive  to  all 
sorts  of  splendors  and  honors  and  royal  festivals.  And  for 
us,  let  us  be  glad  that  we  should  have  the  privilege  to 
admire  her. 

"  Now,  transport  yourself  in  spirit,  my  good  Bob,  into 
another  drawing-room.  There  sits  an  old  lady  of  nior^ 
than  fourscore  years,  serene  and  kind,  and  as  beautiful  in 
her  age  now  as  in  her  youth,  when  History  toasted  her. 
AVliat  has  she  not  seen,  and  is  she  not  ready  to  tellr  All 
the  fame  and  wit,  all  the  rank  and  beauty,  of  more  than 
half  a  century,  have  passed  through  those  rooms  where 
you  liave  the  honor  of  making  your  best  bow.  She  is  as 
simple  now  as  if  she  had  never  had  any  flattery  to  dazzle 
her:  she  is  never  tired  of  being  pleased  and  being  kind. 
Can  that  have  been  anything  but  a  good  life  which,  after 
more  than  eighty  years  of  it  are  spent,  is  so  calm  ?  Could 
she  look  to  the  end  of  it  so  cheerfully,  if  its  long  course  had 
not  been  pure?  Respect  her,  I  say,  for  being  so  happy, 
now  that  she  is  old.  We  do  not  know  what  goodness  and 
charity,  v.hat  affections,  what  trials,  may  have  gone  to 
make  that  charming  sweetness  of  temper,  and  complete 
that  perfect  manner.  But  if  we  do  not  admire  and  rev- 
erence such  an  old  age  as  that,  and  get  good  from  contem- 
plating it,  what  are  we  to  respect  and  admire  ? 

"Or  shall  we  walk  through  the  shop  (while  N.  is  recom- 
mending a  tall  copy  to  an  amateur,  or  folding  up  a  two- 
pennyworth  of  letter-paper,  and  l)owing  to  a  poor  customer 
in  a  Jacket  and  apron  with  just  as  much  respectful  gravity 
as  he  would  show  while  waiting  upon  a  duke),  and  see 
Mrs.  >'.  playing  with  the  child  in  the  back  parlor  until  N. 
shall  come  into  tea  ?  They  diink  tea  at  five  o'clock  ;  and 
are  actually  as  well-bred  as  tliose  gentlefolks  who  dine 
three  hours  later.  Or  will  you  please  to  step  into  Mrs.  J.'s 
V)dging-s  who  is  waiting,  and  at  work,  until  her  husband 


54     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

comes  home  from  Chambers?  She  blushes  and  puts  the 
work  away  on  hearing  the  knock,  but  when  she  sees  who 
the  visitor  is,  she  takes  it  witli  a  smile  from  behind  the  sofa 
cushion,  and  behold,  it  is  one  of  J.'s  waistcoats  on  which 
she  is  sewing  buttons.  She  might  have  been  a  countess 
blazing  in  diamonds,  had  I'ate  so  willed  it,  and  the  liigher 
her  station  the  more  she  would  have  adorned  it.  But  she 
looks  as  charming  m  hile  plying  her  needle  as  the  great  lady 
in  the  palace  whose  equal  she  is  —  in  beauty,  iQ  goodness, 
in  high-bred  grace  and  simplicity ;  at  least,  I  can't  fancy 
her  better,  or  any  peeress  being  more  than  her  peer." 

But  then  he  is  accused  of  not  having  represented 
this.  "  It  is  said,"  to  quote  a  friendly  critic,  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  for  1848,  "  that  having  with 
great  skill  put  together  a  creature  of  which  the 
principal  elements  are  indiscriminatiug  affection, 
ill-requited  devotion,  ignorant  partiality,  a  weak  will 
and  a  narrow  intellect,  he  calls  on  us  to  worship  his 
poor  idol  as  the  type  of  female  excellence.  This  is 
true."  Feminine  critics  enforce  similar  charges  yet 
more  vehemently.  Thus,  Miss  Bronte  says  :  "  As 
usual,  he  is  unjust  to  women,  quite  unjust.  There 
is  hardly  any  punishment  he  does  not  deserve  for 
making  Lady  Castlewood  peep  through  a  keyhole, 
listen  at  a  door,  and  be  jealous  of  a  boy  and  a  milk- 
maid." Mrs.  Jameson  criticises  him  more  elabo- 
rately:  "No  woman  resents  his  Rebecca,  —  inimi- 
table Becky  !  No  woman  but  feels  and  acknowledges 
with  a  shiver  the  completeness  of  that  wonderful 
and  finished  artistic  creation  ;  but  every  woman  re- 
sents the  selfish,  inaue  Amelia Laura  in  Fen- 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.        DO 

dennis  is  a  yet  more  fatal  mistake.  She  is  drawn 
Avith  every  generous  feeling,  eveiy  good  gift.  ^Ve 
do  not  complain  that  she  loves  that  poor  creature 
Pendennis,  for  she  loved  him  in  her  childhood.  She 
grew  up  with  that  love  in  her  heart ;  it  came  be- 
tween her  and  the  perception  of  his  faults ;  it  is  a 
necessity  indivisible  from  her  nature.  Hallowed, 
through  its  constancy,  therein  alone  would  lie  its 
best  excuse,  its  beauty  and  its  truth.  But  Laura, 
faithless  to  that  first  affection  ;  Laura  waked  up  to 
the  appreciation  of  a  far  more  manly  and  noble  na- 
ture, in  love  with  AVarriugton,  and  then  going  back 
to  Pendennis,  and  marrying  him  !  Such  iutirmity 
might  be  true  of  some  women,  but  uot  of  such  a 
woman  as  Laura ;  we  resent  the  inconsistency,  the 
indelicacy  of  the  portrait.  And  then  Lady  Castle- 
wood,  —  so  evidently  a  lavorite  of  the  author,  what 
•^ball  we  say  of  her  '?  The  vii'tuous  woman,  jyar 
■\rce//e/ice,  who  'never  sins  and  never  forgives'; 
■vbo  never  resents,  nor  relents,  nor  repents  ;  the 
mother  Avho  is  the  rival  of  her  daughter ;  the 
Aiother,  who  for  years  is  the  confidante  of  a  man's 
lelirious  passion  for  her  own  child,  and  then  con- 
soles him  by  marrying  him  herself!  O  ]Mr. 
Thackeray  !  this  will  never  do  !  Such  women  may 
exist,  but  to  hold  them  up  as  examph^s  of  excel- 
lence, and  fit  objects  of  our  best  sympathies,  is  a 
fault,  and  proves  a  low  standard  in  ethics  and  in 
ai-t." 


yb        THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER. 

But  all  these  criticisms,  even  if  sound,  go  to 
this  only,  that  Mr.  Thackeray's  rejn'eseutations  of 
women  are  unjust :  they  are  confined  solely  to  his 
novels.  Now,  if  the  view  we  have  taken  of  Mr. 
Thackeray's  genius  be  the  true  one,  such  a  limita- 
tion is  unfair.  He  is  not  to  be  judged  only  by  his 
novels  as  a  representer  of  character,  he  must  be 
judged  also  by  all  his  writings  together  as  a  describer 
and  analyzer  of  character.  In  the  next  place,  the 
said  criticisms  are  based  upon  wonderfully  hasty 
generalizations.  Miss  Bronte  kncAv  that  she  would 
not  have  listened  at  a  keyhole,  and  she  jumps  at 
once  to  the  conclusion  that  neither  would  Lady  Cas- 
tlewood.  But  surely  the  character  of  that  lady  is 
throughout  represented  as  marred  by  many  feminine 
weaknesses  falling  little  short  of  unamiability.  Is 
the  existence  of  a  woman  greedy  of  affection,  jeal- 
ous, and  unforgiving,  an  impossibility?  Her  early 
love  for  Esmond  we  cannot  quite  approve ;  her  later 
marriage  with  him  we  heartily  disapprove ;  but  nei- 
ther of  these  things  is  the  fault  of  the  writer.  With 
such  a  woman  as  Lady  Castlewood,  deprived  of  her 
husband's  affection,  the  growth  of  an  attachment 
towards  her  dependant  into  a  warmer  feeling  Avas  a 
matter  of  extreme  probability  ;  and  her  subsequent 
marriage  to  Esmond,  affectionate,  somewhat  weak, 
and  above  all,  disappointed  elsewhere,  was,  in  llieir 
respective  relations,  a  mere  certainty.  Not  to  have 
married  them  would  have  been  a  mistake  in  art. 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.        Ol 

Thus,  when  a  friend  remonstrated  with  him  for  hav- 
ing made  Esmond  ■'"'marry  his  mother-in-law,"  he 
repliL^d,  "I  didn't  make  him  do  it;  they  did  it 
themselves."  But  as  to  Lady  Castlevvood's  being  a 
favorite  with  the  author,  which  is  the  gravamen  of 
the  charge,  that  is  a  pure  assumption  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Jameson.  We  confess  to  having  always 
received,  in  reading  the  book,  a  clear  impression  to 
the  contrary.  Laura,  again,  we  do  not  admire  ve- 
hemently ;  but  we  cannot  regard  her  returning  to 
her  first  love,  after  a  transient  attachment  to  an- 
other, as  utterly  unnatural.  Indeed,  wc  think  it 
the  very  thing  a  girl  of  her  somewhat  commonplace 
stamp  of  character  would  certainly  have  done.  She 
never  is  much  in  love  with  Pendennis  either  first  or 
last,  but  she  marries  him  nevertheless.  She  might 
have  loved  Warrington,  had  the  Fates  permitted  it, 
very  differently ;  and  as  his  wife,  would  never  have 
displayed  those  airs  of  self-satisfaction  and  moral 
superiority  which  make  her  so  tediously  disagree- 
able. But  all  this  fault-finding  runs  up  into  the 
grand  objection,  that  Thackeray's  good  women  are 
denied  brains  ;  that  he  preserves  an  essential  alliance 
between  moral  worth  and  stupidity  ;  and  it  is  curi- 
ous to  see  how  women  themselves  dislike  this,  — 
how,  in  their  admiration  of  intellect,  they  admit  the 
truth  of  Becky  willingly  enough,  but  indignantly 
aeny  that  of  Amelia.  On  this  question  Mr.  Brown 
^hus  expresses  himself:  — 


58     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

"A  set  has  been  made  against  clever  women  from  all  times. 
Take  all  Shakespeare's  heroines  :  they  all  seem  to  me  pretty 
much  the  same,  affectionate,  motherly,  tender,  that  sort  of 
thing.  Take  Scott's  ladies,  and  other  writers,  each  man 
seems  to  draw  from  one  model  an  exquisite  slave  is  what 
we  want  for  the  most  part,  a  humble,  flattering,  smiling, 
cldld- loving,  tea- making,  pianoforte -playing  being,  who 
laughs  at  our  jokes  however  old  they  may  be,  coaxes  and 
wheedles  us  in  our  humors,  and  fondly  lies  to  us  through 
life." 


In  the  face  of  Rosalind,  Beatrice,  and  Portia,  it 
is  impossible  to  concur  Avith  Mr.  Brown  in  his  no- 
tions about  Shakespeare's  women  ;  but  otherwise  he 
is  right.  Yet  it  is  but  a  poor  defence  for  the  defi- 
ciencies of  a  man  of  genius,  that  others  have  shown 
the  like  short-comings.  And  on  Mr.  Thackeray's  be- 
half a  much  better  defence  may  be  pleaded ;  though 
it  may  be  one  less  agreeable  to  the  sex  which  he  is 
said  to  have  maligned.  That  defence  is  a  simple 
plea  of  not  guilty ;  a  denial  that  his  women,  as  a 
class,  want  intellectual  poAver  to  a  greater  extent 
than  is  consistent  with  truth.  They  vary  between 
the  extremes  of  pure  goodness  and  pure  intellect  — 
Becky  and  Amelia  —  just  as  women  do  in  real  life. 
The  moral  element  is  certainly  too  prominent  in 
Amelia ;  but  not  more  so  than  in  Colonel  Newcome, 
and  we  can't  see  anything  muvh  amiss  in  Helen 
Pendennis.  Laura,  as  JNIiss  Bdl,  is  clever  enough 
for  any  man  ;  and,  though  she  afterwards  becomes 
exceedingly  tiresome  and  a  prig,  she  docs  not  be- 


I 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.       D\) 

come  a  fool.  And  what  man  would  bj  bold  enough 
to  disparage  the  inlcllcctual  powers  of  EtlicI  New- 
come  ?  Pier  moral  nature  is  at  first  incomplete 
owina:  to  a  faulty  edur-ation  ;  but  when  this  has  been 
j)erfected  thron<rh  sorrow,  wherein  is  the  character 
deficient  ?  Besides,  we  mnst  bear  in  mind  that  vir- 
tue in  action  is  undoubtedly  "slow."  Goodness  is 
not  in  itself  entertaining,  while  ability  is;  and  the 
novelist  therefore,  whose  aim  is  to  entertain,  natu- 
raDy  labors  most  Avith  the  characters  possessing  the 
latter,  in  Avhich  characters  the  reader  too  is  most 
interested.  Hence  they  acquire  greater  prominence 
both  as  a  matter  of  fact  in  the  story  and  also  in  our 
minds.  Becky,  Blanche  Amory,  "Trix,  are  undenia- 
bly more  interesting,  and  in  their  points  of  contrast 
and  resemblance  afford  far  ric  her  materials  for  study 
than  Amelia,  Helen  Pendennis,  and  Laura.  But 
this  is  in  the  nature  of  things  ;  and  the  writer  must 
not  be  blamed  for  it  any  more  than  the  readers. 
Taking,  however,  the  Thackerean  gallery  as  a  whole, 
we  cannot  admit  that  either  in  qualities  of  heart  or 
head  his  women  are  inferior  to  the  women  we  gen- 
erally meet.  Perhaps  he  has  never  —  not  even  in 
Ethel — combined  these  qualities  in  their  fullest 
perfection  ;  but  then  how  often  do  we  find  them  so 
combined  ?  It  seems  to  us  that  Thackeray  has 
drawn  women  more  carefully  and  more  truly  than 
any  novelist  in  the  language,  except  Miss  Austen ; 
ana  it  is  small  reproach  to  any  writer,  that  he  has 


GO     Thackeray's  literary  career, 

drawn  no  female  eliaracter  so  evenly  good  as  Anne 
Elliot  or  Elizabeth  Bennet. 

If  this  is  true  of  his  women,  we  need  not  labor 
in  defence  of  his  men.  For  surely  it  cannot  be 
questioned  that  his  representations  of  the  ruder 
sex  are  true,  nay,  are  on  the  whole  an  impi-ove- 
ment  on  reality  ?  The  ordinary  actors  ayIio  crowd 
his  scene  are  not  worse  than  the  people  we  meet 
Avith  every  day ;  his  heroes,  to  use  a  stereotyped 
expression,  are  rather  better  than  the  average  ; 
while  one  such  character  as  George  Warrington  is 
■worth  a  wilderness  of  commonplace  excellence  called 
into  unnatural  life.  But  then  it  is  said  his  general 
tone  is  bitter ;  he  settles  at  once  on  the  weak  points 
of  humanity,  and  to  lay  them  bare  is  his  congenial 
occupation.  To  a  certain  extent  this  was  his  busi- 
ness. "  Dearly  beloved,"  he  says,  "neither  in  nor 
out  of  this  pulpit  do  I  profess  to  be  bigger,  or  clev- 
erer, or  wiser,  or  better  than  any  of  you."  Never- 
theless he  was  a  preacher,  though  an  unassuming 
one ;  and  therefore  it  lay  upon  him  to  point  out 
faults,  to  correct  rather  than  to  flatter.  Yet  it  must 
be  confessed  that  his  earlier  writings  arc  sometimes 
too  bitter  in  their  tone,  and  too  painful  in  their 
theme.  This  may  be  ascribed  partly  to  the  infec- 
tions vehemence  of  Tracer  in  those  days,  partly  to 
the  influence  of  such  experiences  as  arc  drav/n  Vipcn 
in  some  parts  of  the  Faris  Sketch -B oolc ;  but,  how- 
ever accounted  for,  it  must  be  condemned  as  an 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     61 

error  in  art.  As  a  disposition  to  doubt  and  de- 
spond in  youth  betrays  a  narrow  intellect,  or  a  per- 
verted education  ;  so  in  the  beginning  of  a  literary 
career,  a  tendency  towards  gloom  and  curious  re- 
search after  hidden  evil  reveals  artistic  error,  or  an 
unfortunate  experience.  Both  in  morals  and  art 
these  weaknesses  are  generally  the  result  of  years 
and  sorrow ;  and  thus  the  common  transition  is 
tVoni  the  joyousness  of  youth  to  sadness,  it  may  be 
to  moroseness,  in  old  age.  But  theirs  is  the  higher 
and  truer  development,  who  reverse  this  process, — 
who,  beginning  with  false  tastes  or  distorted  views, 
shake  these  off  as  they  advance  into  a  clearer  air, 
in  whom  knowledge  but  strengthens  the  nobler 
powers  of  the  soul,  and  Avhose  kindliness  and 
generosity,  based  on  a  firmer  foundation  than  the 
buoyancy  of  mere  animal  life,  are  purer  and  more 
enduring.  Such,  as  it  appears  to  us,  was  the  his- 
tory of  Thackeray's  genius.  ^Yhatever  may  have 
been  the  severity  of  his  earlier  writings,  it  was 
latterly  laid  aside.  In  the  Neiccomes  he  follows 
the  critical  dogma  -which  he  lays  down,  that  "fic- 
tion has  no  business  to  exist  unless  it  be  more 
beautiful  than  reality  "  ;  and  truthful  kindliness 
marks  all  his  other  writings  of  a  later  date,  from 
the  letters  of  ^Ir.  Brown  and  iNIr.  Spec  in  Punch, 
down  to  the  pleasant  egotism  of  the  "  Roundabout 
Papers."  He  became  disinclined  for  severe  writ- 
ino:  even  where  deserved  :     "  I  have  militated  in 


62     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

former  limes,  and  not  without  glory,  but  I  grow 
peaceable  r.s  I  grow  old."  The  only  things  to- 
Avards  whieh  he  never  grew  peaceable  were  preten- 
tiousness and  falsehood.  But  he  preferred  to  busy 
liimself  with  what  was  innocent  and  brave,  to  at- 
tacking even  these  ;  he  forgot  the  satirist,  and 
loved  rather  honestly  to  praise  or  defend.  The 
"  Roundabout  Papers "  show  this  on  every  page, 
especially,  perhaps,  those  on  Tunbridgc  Toys,  on 
Ribbons,  on  a  Joke  I  heard  from  the  late  Thomas 
Hood,  and  that  entitled  A^il  nisi  hoiiim.  The  very 
last  paper  of  all  was  an  angry  defence  of  Lord  Clyde 
against  miserable  club  gossip,  unnecessary  perhaps, 
but  a  thing  one  likes  now  to  think  that  Thackeray 
felt  stirred  to  do.  "  To  be  tremblingly  alive  to 
gentle  impressions,"  says  Foster,  "  and  yet  be  able 
to  preserve,  when  occasion  requires  it,  an  immov- 
able heart,  even  amidst  the  most  imperious  causes 
of  subduing  emotion,  is  perhaps  not  an  impossible 
constitution  of  mind,  but  it  is  the  utmost  and  rarest 
condition  of  humanity."  These  words  do  not  de- 
scribe the  nature  of  a  man  who  would  pay  out  of 
his  own  pocket  for  contributions  he  could  not  in- 
sert in  the  CoruJiUf ;  but  if  for  heart  we  substitute 
intellect,  they  will  perfectly  describe  his  literary 
genius.  He  was  always  tremblingly  alive  to  gentle 
impressions,  but  his  intellect  amidst  any  emotiuus 
remained  clear  and  immovable ;  so  that  good  taste 
was  never  absent,  and  false  sentiment  never  came 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     G3 

near  him.  He  makes  the  sorrows  of  "Weiiher 
tlie  favorite  reading  of  the  executioner  at  Stras- 
bourg.* 

Few  men  have  written  so  much  that  appeals  di- 
rectly to  our  emotions,  and  yet  kept  so  entirely  aloof 
from  anything  tawdry,  from  all  falsetto.  "  If  my 
tap,"  says  he,  "is  not  genuine,  it  is  naught,  and  no 
man  should  give  himself  the  trouble  to  diink  it." 
It  was  at  all  times  thoroughly  genuine,  and  is  there- 
iore  everything  to  us.  Truthfulness,  in  fact,  eager 
and  uncompromising,  was  his  main  characteristic  ; 
truthfulness  not  only  in  speech,  but,  what  is  a 
far  more  uncommon  and  precious  virtue,  truth  in 

*  Among  Lis  ballads  we  have  the  following  somewhat  lit- 
eral analysis  of  this  work  : — 

"  Werther  liad  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 
"  Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 
And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

"  So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled. 
Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

"  Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 
Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter." 


64     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

thought.  His  entire  mental  macliinery  acted  under 
this  law  of  truth.  He  strove  always  to  tied  and 
show  things  as  they  really  are,  —  true  nobleness 
apart  from  trappings,  unaffected  simplicity,  generos- 
ity without  ostentation  ;  contident  that  so  he  would 
best  convince  every  one  that  what  is  truly  good 
pleases  most,  and  lasts  longest,  and  that  what  is 
otherwise  soon  becomes  tiresome,  and,  worst  of  all, 
ridiculous.  A  man  to  whom  it  has  been  given  con- 
sistently to  devote  to  such  a  purpose  the  highest 
powers  of  sarcasm,  ridicule,  sincere  pathos,  and, 
though  sparingly  used,  of  exhortation,  must  be  held 
to  have  fulfilled  a  career  singularly  honorable  and 
useful.  To  these  noble  ends  he  was  never  unfaith- 
ful. True,  he  made  no  boast  of  this.  Disliking 
cant  of  all  kinds,  he  made  no  exception  in  favor  of 
the  cant  of  his  own  profession.  "  ^Vhat  the  dense," 
he  writes  to  a  friend,  "  our  twopenny  reputations 
get  us  at  least  twopence-halfpenny  ;  and  then  comes 
nox  fabulaque  manes,  and  the  immortals  perish." 
The  straightforward  Mr.  Yellowplush  stoutly  main- 
tains, in  a  similar  strain,  that  people  who  write 
books  are  no  whit  better,  or  actuated  by  more  ex- 
alted motives,  than  their  neighbors  :  "  Away  with 
this  canting  about  great  motifs  !  Let  ns  not  be  too 
prowd,  and  fansy  ourselves  marters  of  the  truth, 
marters  or  apostels.  We  are  but  tradesmen,  work- 
ing for  bread,  and  not  for  righteousness'  sake. 
Let 's  try  and  work  honestly ;  but  don't  let  us  be 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     65 

prayting  pompisly  about  our  'sacred  calling.'" 
And  George  "Warrington,  in  Peiide/inis,  is  never 
■vveary  of  preaching  the  same  wholesome  doctrine. 
Thackeray  had  no  sympathy  with  swagger  of  any 
kind.  His  soul  revolted  from  it;  he  always  talked 
under  what  he  ftlt.  At  the  same  time,  indiflference 
had  no  part  in  this  want  of  pretence.  So  far  from 
being  indifferent,  he  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the 
opinions  of  otheis  ;  too  much  so  for  his  own  hap- 
piness. He  hated  to  be  called  a  cynical  satirist-, 
the  letter  we  have  quoted  to  his  Edinburgh  friends 
shows  how  he  valued  any  truer  appreciation.  Merc 
slander  he  could  despise  like  a  man;  he  winced 
under  the  false  estimates  and  injurious  imputations 
too  frequent  from  people  who  should  have  known 
better.  But  he  saw  his  profession  as  it  really  was, 
and  spoke  of  it  with  his  innate  simplicity  and  dis- 
like of  humbug.  And  in  this  matter,  as  in  the 
ordinary  afTairs  of  life,  those  Avho  profess  little,  re- 
taining a  decent  reserve  as  to  their  feelings  and 
motives,  are  far  more  to  be  relied  on  than  those 
Avho  protest  loudly.  "Whether  authors  are  moved 
by  love  of  fame,  or  a  necessity  for  daily  bread,  does 
not  greatly  signify.  The  world  is  not  concerned 
with  this  in  the  least ;  it  can  only  require  that,  as 
Mr.  Yellowplush  puts  it,  they  should  "  try  to  work 
honestly";  and  herein  he  never  failed.  He  never 
wrote  but  in  accordance  with  his  convictions ;  he 
spared  no  ])riins  that  his  convictions  should  be  in 


66     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

accordance  with  truth.  For  one  quality  we  cannot 
give  him  too  great  praise  •,  that  is  the  sense  of  the 
distinction  of  right  and  of  w'rong.  He  never  puts 
bitter  for  sweet,  or  sweet  for  bitter;  never  calls 
evil  things  good,  or  good  things  evil ;  there  is  no 
haziness  or  muddle ;  no  "  topsyturvifications,"  like 
Madame  Sand's,  in  his  moralities:  —  Avith  an  im- 
mense and  acute  compassion  for  all  suffering,  with 
a  power  of  going  out  of  himself,  and  into  almost 
every  human  feeling,  he  vindicates  at  all  times  the 
supremacy  of  conscience,  the  sacredness  and  clear- 
ness of  the  law  written  in  our  hearts. 

His  keenness  of  observation  and  his  entire  truth- 
fulness found  expression  in  a  style  worthy  of  them 
in  its  sharpness  and  distinctness.  The  specimens 
Avc  have  quoted  of  his  earlier  writings  show  that 
these  qualities  marked  his  style  from  the  first.  He 
labored  to  improve  those  natural  gifts.  He  steadily 
observed  iNIr.  Yellowplush's  recommendation  touch- 
ing poetical  composition  :  "  Take  my  advise,  hon- 
rabble  sir  —  listen  to  a  humble  footmiu:  it's  gcn- 
rally  best  in  poatry  to  understand  puflfickly  what 
you  mean  yourself,  and  to  ingspress  your  meaning 
clearly  afterwoods  —  in  the  simpler  words  the  bet- 
ter, praps."  He  always  expressed  his  meaning 
clearly  and  in  simple  words.  But  as,  Avith  in- 
creasing experience,  his  meanings  deepened  and 
Avidened,  his  expression  became  richer.  The  lan- 
g-uage  continued  to  the  last  simple  and  direct,  but 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     67 

it  became  more  copious,  more  appropriate,  more 
susceptible  of  rhythmical  combiuations  :  in  other 
words,  it  rose  to  be  the  worthy  vehicle  of  more 
varied  and  more  poetical  ideas.  This  strange  pe- 
culiarity of  soberness  in  youth,  of  fancy  coming 
into  being  at  the  command  and  for  the  service  of 
the  mature  judgment,  has  maiiied  some  of  the  great- 
est writers.  The  words  in  which  Lord  Macaulay 
has  described  it  Avith  regard  to  Bacon  may  be 
applied,  with  little  reservation,  to  Thackeray :  '•'  He 
observed  as  vigilantly,  meditated  as  deeply,  and 
judged  as  temperately,  when  he  gave  his  first  work 
to  the  world,  as  at  the  close  of  his  long  career. 
But  in  eloquence,  in  sweetness  and  variety  of  ex- 
pression, and  in  richness  of  illustration,  his  later 
writings  are  far  superior  to  those  of  his  youth." 
Confessedly  at  the  last  he  was  the  greatest  master 
of  pure  English  in  our  day.  His  style  is  never 
ornate,  on  the  contrary  is  always  marked  by  a  cer- 
tain reserve  which  surely  betokens  thought  and  real 
feeling  :  is  never  forced  or  loaded,  only  entirely 
appropriate  and  entirely  beautiful ;  like  crystal,  at 
once  clear  and  splendid.  We  quote  two  passages, 
both  from  books  ^vritten  in  his  prime,  not  merely 
as  justifying  these  remarks,  but  because  they  illus- 
trate qualities  of  his  mind  second  only  to  his  truth- 
fulness,—his  sense  of  beauty  and  his  sense  of 
pathos.  And  yet  neither  passage  has  any  trace 
of  what   he  calls  the  "•'  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or 


68     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

tall-talkiug."  The  first  is  the  end  of  the  Kickle- 
burys  on  the  Rhine :  — 

"The  next  morning  we  had  passed  by  the  rocks  and 
towers,  the  old  familiar  landscapes,  the  gleaming:  towers  by 
the  river-side,  and  the  green  vineyards  coml)ed  along  the 
hills ;  and  when  I  woke  up,  it  was  at  a  great  hotel  at  Co- 
logne, and  it  was  not  sunrise  yet.  Deutz  lay  opposite,  and 
over  Deutz  the  dusky  sky  was  reddened.  The  hills  were 
veiled  in  the  mist  and  the  gray.  The  gray  river  flowed  un- 
derneath us  ;  the  steamers  were  roosting  along  the  quays,  a 
light  keeping  watch  in  the  caljins  here  and  there,  and  its 
reflection  quivering  in  the  water.  As  I  look,  the  sky-linf 
towards  the  east  grows  redder  and  redder.  A  long  troop  t 
gray  horsemen  winds  down  the  river  road,  and  passes  over 
the  bridge  of  boats.  You  might  take  them  for  ghosts,  those 
gray  horsemen,  so  shadowy  do  they  look ;  but  you  hear  the 
trample  of  their  hoofs  as  they  pass  over  the  planks.  Every 
minute  the  dawn  twinkles  up  into  the  twilight ;  and  over 
Deutz  the  heaven  blushes  brighter.  Tlie  quays  begin  to  fill 
with  men ;  the  carts  begin  to  creak  and  rattle ;  and  wake 
the  sleeping  echoes.  Ding,  ding,  ding,  the  steamers'  bells 
beo-in  to  ring ;  the  people  on  board  to  stir  and  wake ;  the 
lights  may  be  extinguished,  and  take  their  turn  of  sleep; 
the  active"  boats  sliake  tliemselves,  and  push  out  into  the 
river ;  the  great  bridge  opens  and  gives  them  passage ;  ihe 
church-bells  of  the  city  begin  to  clink ;  the  cavalry  trum- 
pets blow  from  the  opposite  bank ;  the  sailor  is  at  the  wheel, 
the  porter  at  his  burden,  the  soldier  at  his  musket,  and  the 

priest  at  his  prayers And  lo !  in  a  flash  of  crimson 

splendor,  with  blazing  scarlet  clouds  running  before  his 
chariot,  and  heralding  his  majestic  approach,  God's  sun 
rises  upon  the  world,  and  all  nature  wakens  and  brightens. 
0  glorious  spectacle  of  light  and  life  !  O  beatific  symbol 
of  Power,  Love,  Joy,  Beauty!  Let  us  look  at  thee  with 
liumble  wonder,  and   thankfully  acknoMledge  and   adore. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     69 

What  gracious  forethought  is  it,  —  what  generous  and  lov- 
inj  provision,  that  deigns  to  prepare  for  our  eyes  and  to 
soothe  our  hearts  with  such  a  splendid  mor-ning  festival '.  For 
these  raaguificent  bounties  of  Heaven  to  us,  let  us  he  thank- 
ful, even  that  we  can  feel  thankful  for  thanks  surely  is  the 
noblest  effort,  as  it  is  the  greatest  delight,  of  the  gentle 
soul)  ;  and  so,  a  grace  for  this  feast,  let  all  say  who  partake 

of  it See !  the  mist  clears  off  Drachenfels,  and  it 

looks  out  from  the  distance,  and  bids  us  a  friendly  farewell." 

Our  second  quotation  describes  Esmond  at  his 

mother's  grave, — one  of  the  most  deeply  affecting 
pieces  of  writing  in  the  language  :  — 

"Esmond  came  to  this  spot  in  one  sunny  evening  of 
spring,  and  saw  amidst  a  thousand  black  crosses,  casting 
their  shadows  across  the  grassy  mounds,  that  particular  one 
which  marked  his  mother's  resting-place.  Many  more  of 
those  poor  creatures  that  lay  there  had  adopted  that  same 
name  with  which  sorrow  had  rebaptized  her,  and  which 
fondly  seemed  to  hint  their  individual  story  of  love  and 
grief.  He  fancied  her,  in  tears  and  darkness,  kneeling  at 
the  foot  of  her  cross,  under  which  her  cares  were  buried. 
Surely  he  knelt  down,  and  said  his  own  prayer  there,  not 
in  sorrow  so  much  as  in  awe  i^for  even  his  memory  had  no 
recollection  of  her),  and  in  pity  for  the  pangs  which  the 
gentle  soul  in  life  had  been  made  to  suflFer.  To  this  cross 
she  i)rought  them  ;  for  this  heavenly  bridegroom  she  ex- 
changed the  husljand  who  had  wooed  her,  the  traitor  who 
had  left  her.  A  thousand  such  hillocks  lay  round  about, 
the  gentle  daisies  springing  out  of  the  grass  over  them,  and 
each  bearing  its  cross  and  reqniescat.  A  nun,  veiled  in  black, 
was  kneeling  hard  by,  at  a  sleeping  sister's  bedside  i  so  fresh 
made,  that  the  spring  had  scarce  had  time  to  spin  a  coverlid 
for  it) ;  beyond  the  cemetery  walls  you  had  glimpses  of  life 
and  the  world,  and  the  spires  and  gables  of  the  city.  A 
bird  came  down  from  a  roof  opposite,  and  lit  first  on 


70     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

.  cross,  and  then  on  the  grass  below  it,  whence  it  flew 
iway  presently  with  a  leaf  in  its  mouth :  tlien  came  a 
sound  of  chanting,  from  the  chapel  of  the  sisters  hard  by : 
others  had  long  since  tilled  the  place  which  poor  Mary 
Magdalene  once  had  there,  were  kneeling  at  the  same  stall 
and  hearing  the  same  hymns  and  prayers  in  Avhich  her 
stricken  heart  had  found  consolation.  Might  she  sleep  in 
peace,  —  might  she  sleep  in  peace;  and  we,  too,  when  our 
struggles  and  pains  are  over !  But  the  earth  is  the  Lord's 
as  the  heaven  is ;  we  are  alike  his  creatures  here  and 
yonder.  I  took  a  little  flower  off  the  hillock  and  kissed 
it,  and  went  my  way  like  the  bird  that  had  just  lighted  en 
the  cross  by  me,  back  into  the  world  again.  Silent  recep- 
tacle of  deatli,  tranquil  depth  of  calm,  out  of  reach  of  tem- 
pest and  trouble.  1  felt  as  one  who  had  been  walking  below 
the  sea,  and  treading  amidst  the  bones  of  shipwrecks." 

Looking  at  Mr.  Thackeray's  writings  as  a  whole, 
he  would  be  more  truthfully  described  as  a  senti- 
mentalist than  as  a  cynic.  Even  when  the  neces- 
sities of  his  story  compel  him  to  draw  bad  charac- 
ters, he  gives  them  as  much  good  as  he  can.  We 
don't  remember  in  his  novels  any  utterly  unre- 
deemed scoundrel  except  Sir  Francis  Clavering. 
Even  Lord  Steyne  has  something  like  genuine  sym- 
pathy with  Major  Pendennis's  grief  at  the  illness 
of  his  nephew.  And  if  reproof  is  the  main  burden 
of  his  discourse,  we  must  remember  that  to  reprove, 
not  to  praise,  is  the  business  of  the  preacher.  Still 
further,  if  his  reproof  appears  sometimes  unduly 
severe,  we  must  remember  that  such  severity  may 
spring  from  a  belief  that  better  things  are  possible. 
Here  lies  the  secret  of  Thackeray's  seeming  bitter- 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      71 

ness.  His  nature  was,  in  tlie  words  of  the  critic 
in  Le  Temps,  "furieuse  cVavoir  etc  desappoi)itee.'^ 
He  condemns  sternly  men  as  they  often  are,  because 
he  had  a  high  ideal  of  what  they  might  be.  The 
feeling  of  this  contrast  runs  through  all  his  writ- 
ings. "  He  could  not  have  painted  Vanity  Fair  as 
he  has,  unless  Eden  had  been  shining  brightly  before 
his  eyes."*  And  this  contrast  could  never  have 
been  felt,  the  glories  of  Eden  could  never  have  been 
seen,  by  the  mere  satirist  or  by  the  misanthrope. 
It  has  been  often  urged  against  him  that  he  does 
not  make  us  think  better  of  our  fellow-men.  No, 
truly.  But  he  does  what  is  far  greater  than  this, 
—  he  makes  us  think  worse  of  ourselves.  There 
is  no  great  necessity  that  we  should  think  well  of 
other  people ;  there  is  the  utmost  necessity  that  we 
should  know  ourselves  in  our  every  fault  and  weak- 
ness ;  and  such  knowledge  his  writings  will  supply. 
In  Mr.  Hannay's  Memoir, f  which  we  have  read 
Avith  admiration  and  pleasure,  a  letter  from  Thack- 
eray is  quoted,  very  illustrative  of  this  view  of  his 
character:  "  I  hate  Juvenal;  I  mean,  I  think  him 
a  truculent  brute,  and  I  love  Horace  better  than  you 
do,  and  rate  Churchill  much  lower;  and  as  for 
Swift,  you  have  n't  made  me  alter  my  opinion.     I 

*  Essays  l)y  George  Biiniley.  Second  edition.  Cani- 
Ijridge,  1860.    A  collection  of  singularly  good  critical  papers. 

t  A  Brief  Memoir  of  the  late  Mr.  Thackeray.  By  James 
Hannav.     Edinburirli,  186i. 


72     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

jidmire,  or  rather  admit,  liis  power  as  much  as  you 
do  ;  but  I  don't  admire  that  kind  of  power  so  much 
as  I  did  iifteen  years  ago,  or  twenty  shall  we  say. 
Loceis  a  higher  intellectual  exercise  than  hatred." 
We  think  the  terrible  Dean  had  love  as  well  as  hate 
strong  within  him,  and  none  the  worse  in  that  it 
was  more  special  than  general ;  "  I  like  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry,"  he  used  to  say ;  "I  hate  the  race"; 
but  nothing  can  be  more  characteristic  of  Thack- 
eray than  this  judgment.  Love  was  the  central 
necessity  of  his  understanding  as  well  as  of  his  af- 
fections ;  it  was  his  fullilling  of  the  law  ;  and  unlike 
the  Dean,  he  could  love  Tom,  and  also  like  and  pity 
as  well  as  rebuke  the  race. 

Mr.  Thackeray  has  not  written  any  history  for- 
mally so  called.  But  it  is  known  that  he  purposed 
doing  so,  and  in  Hsmond  and  the  Lectures  he  has 
given  ns  much  of  the  real  essence  of  history.  The 
Saturday  lleiiew,  however,  in  a  recent  article,  has 
announced  that  this  was  a  mistake  ;  that  history  was 
not  his  line.  Such  a  decision  is  rather  startling. 
In  one  or  two  instances  of  historical  representation, 
Mr.  Thackeray  may  have  failed.  Johnson  and  Rich- 
ardson do  not  appear  in  the  Virginians  Avith  much 
eifect.  But  surely  in  the  great  majority  of  in- 
stances he  has  been  eminently  successful.  Horace 
Walpole's  letter  in  the  Virginians,  the  fictitious 
"  Spectator  "  in  Esmond,  are  very  felicitous  literary 
imitations.     Good-natured  trooper  Steele  comfort- 


ing  the  boy  in  the  lonely  country-house  ;  Addison, 
serene  and  dignified,  "  with  ever  so  slight  a  touch 
of  merum  in  his  voice"  occasionally;  Bolingbroke, 
with  a  good  deal  of  merum  in  his  voice,  talking 
reckless  Jacobitisni  at  the  dinner  at  General  Webbe's, 
are  wonderful  portraits.  And,  though  the  estimate 
of  Marlborough's  character  may  be  disputed,  the 
power  with  which  that  character  is  represented  can- 
not be  questioned.  But  the  historical  genius  dis- 
played in  ^?/«o«^  goes  beyond  this.  We  know  of 
no  history  in  which  the  intrigues  and  confusion  of 
parties  at  the  death  of  Queen  Anne  are  sketched  so 
firmly  as  in  the  third  volume  of  that  work  ;  in  fact, 
a  more  thorough  historical  novel  was  never  written. 
It  is  not  loaded  with  historical  learning ;  and  yet  it 
is  most  truly,  though  or  rather  because  unpretend- 
ingly, a  complete  representation  of  the  time.  It 
reads  like  a  veritable  memoir.  And  it  will  hardly 
be  disputed,  that  a  good  historical  novel  cannot  be 
written  save  by  one  possessed  of  great  historical 
powers.  What  are  the  qualities  necessary  to  a  his- 
torian? Knowledge,  love  of  truth,  insight  into 
human  nature,  imagination  to  make  alive  before  him 
the  times  of  which  he  writes.  All  these  Mr.  Thack- 
eray had.  His  knowledge  was  accurate  and  minute, 
—  indeed,  he  could  not  have  written  save  of  what 
he  knew  well ;  a  love  of  truth  was  his  main  char- 
acteristic ;  for  insight  into  human  nature  he  ranks 
second  to  Shakespeare  alone  ;  and,  while  he  wanted 


74     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

that  highest  creative  imagination  which  makes  the 
poet,  he  had  precisely  that  secondary  imagination 
which  serves  the  historian,  which  can  realize  the 
past  and  make  the  distant  near.  Had  he  heen  al- 
lowed to  carry  out  his  cherished  design  of  recording 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  a  great  gap  in  the  history 
of  our  countiy  would  have  been  tilled  up  by  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  books  in  the  language.  "We 
might  have  had  less  than  is  usual  of  the  "  dignity 
of  history,"  of  battles  and  statutes  and  treaties ; 
but  we  should  have  had  more  of  human  natui-e,  — 
the  actors  in  the  drama  would  have  been  brought 
before  us  living  and  moving,  their  passions  and  hid- 
den motives  made  clear ;  the  life  of  England  would 
have  been  sketched  by  a  subtle  artist  ;  the  literature 
of  England,  during  a  period  which  this  generation 
often  talks  about,  but  of  which  it  knows,  we  sus- 
pect, very  little,  would  have  been  presented  to  us 
lighted  up  by  appreciative  and  competent  criticism. 
The  Saturday  Reviewer  gives  a  reason  for  ]\Ir. 
Thackeray's  failure  as  a  historian,  which  will  seem 
strange  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  re- 
gard him  as  a  cynic.  "  He  was  so  carried  away  by 
worth,"  says  this  ingenious  critic  bent  on  fault-find- 
ing, "  and  so  impatient  of  all  moral  obliquity,  that  he 
could  not  value  fairly  the  services  which  had  been 
rendered  by  bad  men."  And  the  instance  given  is 
that  a  sense  of  what  Ave  owe  to  the  Hanoverian 
succession  was  not  allowed  to  temper  ^^'^  severity 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     75 

of  the  estimate  given  of  the  first  two  Georges ;  — 
aa  unfortunate  instance,  as  the  critic  would  have 
discovered  had  he  read  the  following  passage  in  the 
lecture  on  George  the  Second  :  — 

"  But  for  Sir  Roljcrt  "Walpolc,  we  shoultl  liave  had  the  Pre- 
temlei-  back  again.  But  for  his  ol)stinate  love  of  peace,  we 
slioukl  have  liatl  wars  wliich  tlie  nation  was  not  strong 
enough  nor  united  enough  to  endure.  But  for  his  resolute 
counsels  and  good-humored  resistance,  we  might  liave  had 
German  despots  attempting  a  Hanoverian  regimen  over  us; 
we  should  have  had  revolt,  commotion,  want,  and  tyrannous 
misrule,  in  place  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  peace,  freedom, 
and  material  prosperity,  such  as  the  country  never  enjoyed, 
until  that  corrupter  of  parliaments,  tliat  dissolute,  tipsy 
cynic,  that  courageous  lover  of  peace  and  liberty,  that  great 
citizen,  ])atriot,  and  statesman  governed  it." 

The  truth  is,  that  :\Ir.  Thackeray,  while  fully 
appreciating  the  hlessings  of  the  Hanoverian  suc- 
cession, knew  well  that  the  country  did  not  in  the 
least  degree  owe  the  stability  of  that  succession  to 
the  Hanoverian  kings,  hut,  on  the  contrary,  to  that 
great  .minister,  whose  character  is  sketched,  in  a 
powerful  passage,  of  which  the  above  quotation  is  a 
part.  In  fact,  Mr.  Thackeray  judged  no  man  harsh- 
ly. Xo  attentive  student  of  his  Avorks  can  fail  to 
see  that  he  understood  the  duty  of  "  making  allow- 
ance," not  less  with  regard  to  historical  characters, 
than  with  regard  to  characters  of  his  own  creation. 
He  does  full  justice,  for  example,  to  the  courage 
and  conduct  of  Marlboroush,  as  to  whose  moral 


(  b       THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER. 

character  the  opinion  of  Colonel  Esmond  is  in  cu- 
rious accordance  with  the  historical  judgment  given 
later  to  the  public  by  Lord  Macaulay. 

These  "Lectures  on  the  Georges  "  were  made  the 
ground  of  a  charge  against  Mr.  Thackeray  of  dis- 
loyalty. This  charge  was  urged  with  peculiar  of- 
fensiveness  by  certain  journals,  Avhich  insinuated 
that  the  failings  of  English  kings  had  been  selected 
as  a  theme  grateful  to  the  American  audiences  who 
first  heard  the  lectures  delivered.  INIr.  Thackeray 
felt  this  charge  deeply,  and  repelled  it  in  language 
which  Ave  think  Avorthy  to  be  remembered.  At 
a  dinner  given  to  him  in  Edinburgh,  in  1857,  he 
said :  — 

"I  had  thought  tliat  in  these  lectures  I  liad  spoken  in 
terms  not  of  disrespect  or  uukiudness,  and  in  feelings  and 
in  language  not  un-English,  of  her  Majesty  the  Queen  ;  and 
wherever  I  have  liad  to  mention  her  name,  whether  it  was 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Clyde  or  upon  those  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, whether  it  was  in  New  England  or  in  Old  England, 
whether  it  was  in  some  great  hall  in  London  to  the  artisans 
of  the  suburbs  of  the  metropolis,  or  to  the  politer  audiences 
of  the  western  end,  —  wherever  I  had  to  mention  lier  name, 
it  was  received  with  shouts  of  applause,  and  with  the  most 
hearty  cheers.  And  why  was  this  ?  It  was  not  on  account 
of  the  speaker ;  it  was  on  account  of  the  truth ;  it  was  be- 
cause the  English  and  the  Americans  —  the  people  of  New 
Orleans  a  year  ago,  the  people  of  Aberdeen  a  week  ago  — 
all  received  and  acknowledged  with  due  allegiance  the  great 
claims  to  lionor  which  that  lady  has  who  worthily  liolds 
that  great  and  awful  situation  which  our  Queen  occupies. 
It  is  my  loyalty  that  is  called  in  question,  and  it  is  my 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     77 

loyalty  that  I  am  trying  to  plead  to  you.  Suppose,  for  ex- 
ample,  in  America,  — in  Philadelphia  or  in  >"ew  York, — 
that  I  liad  spoken  about  George  IV.  in  terms  of  praise  and 
affected  reverence,  do  you  believe  they  would  have  hailed 
his  name  with  cheers,  or  have  heard  it  with  anything  like 
respect?  They  would  have  laughed  in  my  face  if  I  had  so 
spoken  of  him.  They  know  what  I  know  and  you  know, 
and  what  numbers  of  squeamish  loyalists  who  affect  to  cry 
out  against  my  lectures  know,  that  that  man's  life  was  not 
a  good  life,  —  that  that  king  v.-as  not  such  a  king  as  we  ought 
to  love,  or  regard,  or  honor.  And  I  believe,  for  my  part,  that 
in  speaking  the  truth,  as  we  hold  it,  of  a  bad  sovereign,  we 
are  paying  no  disrespect  at  all  to  a  good  one.  Far  from  it. 
On  the  contrary,  we  degrade  our  own  honor  and  the  Sover- 
eign's by  unduly  and  unjustly  praising  him  ;  and  the  mere 
slaverer  and  flatterer  is  one  who  comes  forward,  as  it  were, 
with  flash  notes,  and  pays  with  false  coin  liis  tribute  to 
Caesar.  I  don't  disguise  that  I  feel  somehow  ou  my  trial 
here  for  loyalty,  for  honest  English  feeling." 

The  judgment  pronounced  by  the  accomplished 
Scotch  judge  who  presided  at  this  dinner-trial,  a 
man  far  removed,  both  by  tastes  and  position,  from 
any  sympathy  with  vulgar  popularity-hunting,  will 
be  accepted  by  every  candid  person  as  just :  — 

'•'  I  don't,"  said  Lord  Xeaves,  "  for  my  part,  regret  if  there 
are  some  painful  truths  told  in  these  lectures  to  those  who 
had  before  reposed  in  the  pleasing  delusion  that  everything 
royal  was  immaculate.  I  am  not  sorry  that  some  of  the  false 
trappings  of  royalty  or  of  a  court  life  should  be  stripped 
off.  We  live  under  a  Sovereign  whose  conduct,  both  pub- 
lic and  private,  is  so  une.xceptionable,  that  we  can  afford 
to  look  all  the  facts  connected  with  it  in  the  face ;  and  woe 
be  to  the  country  or  to  the  crown  when  the  voice  of  truth 
shall  be  stifled  as  to  any  such  matters,  or  when  the  only 
tongue  that  is  allowed  to  be  heard  is  that  of  fl.attery." 


78     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

It  was  said  of  Pontenelle  ttat  he  had  as  good  a 
heart  as  could  be  made  out  of  brains.  Adapting; 
the  observation,  we  may  say  of  Thackeray  that  he 
was  as  good  a  poet  as  could  be  made  out  of  brains. 
The  highest  gifts  of  the  poet  of  course  he  Avanted. 
His  imagination,  to  take  Ruskin's  distinction,  was 
more  penetrative  than  associative  or  contemplative. 
His  mind  was  too  much  occupied  with  realities  for 
persistent  ideal  work.  But  manliness  and  common 
sense,  combined  with  a  perfect  mastery  of  language, 
go  a  long  way  at  least  to  the  making  of  very  ex- 
cellent verses.  More  than  this,  he  had  the  sensi- 
bility, the  feeling  of  time  and  of  numbers  essential 
to  versifying ;  and  his  mind  fulfilled  the  condition 
required  by  our  greatest  living  poet :  — 

"  Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river." 

His  verse-making  was  a  sort  of  pleasaunce,  —  a 
flower-garden  in  the  midst  of  spacious  policies.  It 
was  the  ornamentation  of  his  intellect.  His  bal- 
lads do  not  perhaps  show  poetic  feeling  more  pro- 
found than  is  possessed  by  many  men  ;  they  derive, 
for  the  most  part,  their  charm  from  the  same  high 
qualities  as  mark  his  prose,  with  the  attraction  of 
music  and  rhyme  superadded.  "Writing  them  seems 
to  have  given  him  real  pleasure.  The  law  of  self- 
imposed  restraint,  of  making  the  thought  often  wait 
upon  the  sound,  necessary  in  rhythmical  composi- 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     79 

tion,  rather  than,  as  in  prose,  the  sound  upon  the 
sense, — this  measuring  of  feeling  and  of  expres- 
sion had  plainly  a  great  charm  for  his  rich  and 
docile  genius.  His  verses  give  one  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing been  a  great  delight  to  himself,  like  humming 
a  favorite  air ;  there  is  no  trace  of  effort,  and  yet 
the  trick  of  the  verse  is  perfect.  His  rhymes  are 
often  as  good  as  Swift's  and  Hood's.  This  feeling 
of  enjoyment,  as  also  the  abounding  fertility  in 
strange  rliymes,  is  very  marked  in  the  White  Squall ; 
and  hardly  less  in  the  ease  and  gayety  of  Peg  of 
Limavaddy.  Take,  for  instance,  the  description  of 
the  roadside  inn  where  Peg  dispenses  liquor :  — 

"Limavaddy  inn  's 

But  a  liiinible  baithouse, 
"Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking. 
With  a  M'ary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 
To  the  chimney  nook. 

Having  found  admittance. 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  Ijlazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies) 


80     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it. 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted !  " 

Peg  herself  and  her  laugh,  — 

"  Such  a  silver  peal ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who  've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel. 

Singing  '  Giovinetti ' ; 
.  Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful. 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  lialf  a  pint  of  beer  full ! 
See  her  as  she  moves  ! 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches, 
Airy  as  a  fay. 

Graceful  as  a  duchess ; 
Bare  her  rounded  arm. 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  showed 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's  ; 
Braided  is  her  hair. 

Soft  her  look  and  modest. 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  bodiced." 

In  a  similar  light  and  graceful  style  are  the  Cane- 
Bottomed  Chair,  Piscator  and  Piscatrix,  the  Car- 
men Lilliense,  etc. ;  and  all  the  Lyra  Hiberuica, 
especially  the  rollicking  Battle  of  Limerick,  are 
rich  in  Irish  absurdity.     That  compact  little  epic, 


Thackeray's  literary  career,     81 

the  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,  the  well-known  Bouil- 
labaisse, and  At  the  Church  Gate,  —  the  iirst  lit- 
erary effort  of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  —  seem  to  us 
in  their  various  styles  to  rise  into  the  region  of  real 
poetry.  The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum  is  a  grand 
martial  composition,  and  a  picture  of  the  feelings 
of  the  French  soldiery  which  strikes  on  us  at  once 
as  certainly  true.  The  Ballads  of  Pleacemai  X. 
are  unique  in  literature, — as  startlingly  original 
as  Tarn  OShanter.  Jacob  Homniura's  Hoss  is 
perhaps  the  most  amusing,  the  Foundling  of  Shore- 
ditch  the  most  serious  ;  but  through  them  all  there 
runs  a  current  of  good  sense,  good  feeling,  and 
quaint  fun  which  makes  them  most  pleasant  read- 
ing. They  remind  one  somehow  of  John  Gilpin, — 
indeed  there  is  often  the  same  playful  fancy  and 
delicate  pensiveness  in  Thackeray  as  in  Cowper. 
"We  should  like  to  quote  many  of  these ;  but  we 
give  in  preference  Miss  -Tickletobi-'s  ballad  on  King 
Canute,  long  thongli  it  be,  because  it  is  not  in- 
cluded in  the  collected  ballads,  and  has  not,  we  fear, 
obtained  great  popularity  by  being  incorporated 
into  Rebecca  and  Hoicena,  —  a  rendering  of  poeti- 
cal justice  less  generally  read  than  it  shoidd  be :  — 

KING  CANUTE. 

King  Canute  was  weary-hearted  ;  he  had  reigned  for  years 

a  score  ; 
Battling,  struggling,  pushing,  fighting,  killing  much  and 

robbins  more. 


82     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

And  he  tliought  upon  his  actions,  walking  bj^  the  wild  sea- 
shore. 

'Twixt  the  chancellor  and  bishop  walked  the  king  with 

steps  sedate, 
Chamberlains  and  grooms  came  after,  silver  sticks  and  gold 

sticks  great. 
Chaplains,  aides-de-camp,  and  pages,  —  all  the  officers  of 

state. 

Sliding  after  like  his  shadow,  pausing  when  he  chose  to 

pause ; 
If   a   frown    liis    face   contracted,   straight   the   courtiers 

dropped  their  jaws ; 
If  to  laugh  the  king  was  minded,  out  they  burst  in  loud 

hee-haws. 

But  that  day  a  something  vexed  him,  that  was  clear  to  old 

and  young  -. 
Thrice  his  grace  had  yawned  at   table,  when  his  favorite 

gleeman  sung ; 
Once  the  queen  would  have  consoled  him,  but  he  bade  her 

hold  her  tongue. 

"Something  ails  my  gracious  master,"  cried  the  keeper  of 

the  seal ; 
"  Sure,  my  lord,  it  is  the  lampreys  served  at  dinner,  or  the 

veal !  " 
Tsha!  "  exclaimed  the  angry  monarch,  "keeper,  't  is  not 

that  I  feel. 

"  'T  is  the  heart  and  not  the  dinner,  fool,  that  doth  my  rest 

impair ; 
Can  a  king  be  great  as  I  am,  prithee,  and  yet  know  no 

care? 
"0  I'm  sick,  and  tired,  and  weary."  —  Some  one  cried, 

"The  king's  arm-chair  1  " 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     83 

Then  towards   the  lackeys   turning,   quick  my  lord    the 

keeper  nodded, 
Straight  the  king's  great  chair  was  brought  him,  by  two 

footmen  alile-bodied ; 
Languidly  he  sank  into  it :  it  was  comfortably  wadded. 

"  Leading  on  my  fierce  companions,"  cried  he,  "  over  storm 

and  brine, 
I  haA-e  fought  and  I  have  conquered!    "Where  was  gloiy 

like  to  mine!  " 
Loudly  all  the  courtiers  echoed,  "  Where  is  glory  like  to 

thine  ?  " 

"  "UTiat  avail  me  all  my  kingdoms  ?    Wearv  am  I  now,  and 

old  ; 

Those  fair  sons  I  have  begotten  long  to  see  me  dead  and 

cold; 
Would  I  were,   and   quiet  buried,  underneath  the  silent 

mould ! 

"0  remoi-se,  the  writhing  sei-pent !  at  my  bosom  tears  and 

bites ! 
Horrid,  horrid  thiuirs  I  look  on,  though  I  put  out  all  the 

lights  ; 
Ghosts  of  ghastly  recollections    troop    about  my  bed  of 

nights. 

'•'  Cities  burning,  convents  blazing,  red  with  sacrilegious 

fires ; 
Mothers    weeping,    Airgins    screaming,    vainly    for    their 

slaughtered  sires  —  " 
— "  Such  a  tender  conscience,"  cries  the  bishop,  "  every 

one  admires. 

"But  for  such  unpleasant  bygones,  cease,  my  gracious  lord, 

to  search, 
They  're  forgotten  and  foi-given  by  our  holy  Mother  Church; 
Never,  never  does  she  leave  her  benefactors  in  the  lurch. 


84     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

"  Look !  the  land  is  croAvned  with  minstersj  which  your 

Grace's  bounty  raised ; 
Abbeys  tilled  Mith  lioly  men,  where  you  and  Heaven  are 

daily  praised ; 
You,  my  lord,  to  think  of  dying  ?  on  my  conscience,  I  'm 

amazed ! " 

"  Nay,   I  feel,"  replied   King  Canute,  "  that  my  end  is 

drawing  near." 
"  Don't  say  so,"  exclaimed  the  courtiers  (striving  each  to 

squeeze  a  tear), 
"  Sure  your  Grace  is  strong  and  lusty,  and  may  live  this 

fifty  year." 

"Live  these  fifty  years!  "  the  bishop  roared,  Avith  actions 

made  to  suit, 
"  Are  you  mad,  my  good  lord  keeper,  thus  to  speak  of  King 

Canute  ? 
Men  have  lived  a  thousand  years,  and  sure  his  Majesty  will 

do  't." 

"  Adam,  Enoch,  Lamech,  Canan,  Mahaleel,  Methusela, 
lived  nine  hundred  years  apiece,  and  may  n't  the  king  as 

well  as  they  ?  " 
"Fervently,"  exclaimed  the  keeper,  "fervently,  I  trust  he 

may." 

"  He  to  die,"  resumed  the  bishop.  "  He  a  mortal  like  to  vs  ? 
D^ath  was  not  for  him  intended,  though  commums  omnibus ; 
Keeper,  you  are  irreligious,  for  to  talk  and  cavil  thus. 

"With  his  wondrous  skill  in  healing  ne'er  a  doctor  can 

compete, 
.loathsome  lepers,  if  he  touch  them,  start  up  clean  upon 

their  feet ; 
riurely  he  could  raise  the  dead  up,  did  his  Highness  think  it 

meet. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     85 

"Did  not  once  the  Jewish  captain  stay  the  sun  upon  the  hill, 
And,  the  while  he  slew  the  foemen,  hid  the  silver  moon  stand 

stiU? 
So,  no  douht,  could  gracious  Canute,  if  it  were  his  sacred 

will." 

"  Might  I  stay  the  sun  above  us,  good  Sir  Bishop  ?  "  Canute 

cried ; 
"Could  I  bid  the  silver  moon  to  pause  upon  her  heavenly 

ride? 
If  the  moon  obeys  my  orders,  sure  I  can  command  the  tide. 

"  Will  the  advancing  waves  obey  me,  bishop,  if  I  make  tlie 

sign  ?  " 
Said  the  bishop,  bowing  lowly,  "Land  and  sea,  my  lord,  are 

thine." 
Canute   turned   towards   the   ocean,  —  "  Back  !  "   he   said, 

"thou  foaming  brine. 

"From  the  sacred  shore  I  stand  on,  I  command  thee  to 

retreat ; 
Venture  not,  thou  stormy  rebel,  to  approach  thy  master's 

seat ; 
Ocean,  be  thou  still !     I  bid  thee  come  not  nearer  to  my 

feet !  " 

But  the  sullen  ocean  answered  with  a  louder,  deeper  roar. 
And  the  rapid  waves  drew  nearer,  falling  sounding  on  the 

shore ; 
Back  the  keeper  and  the  bishop,  back  the  king  and  courtiers 

bore. 

And  he  sternly  bade  them  never  more  to  kneel  to  human 

clay. 
But  alone  to  praise  and  worship  that  which  earth  and  seas 

obey ; 
And  his  golden  crown  of  empire  never  wore  he  from  that 

day. 
King  Cflnute  is  dead  and  gone :  parasites  e.vist  alway. 


86     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

We  must  say  a  few  words  ou  his  merits  as  an  ar- 
tist and  a  critic  of  art.  We  can  hardly  agree  with 
those  who  hold  that  he  failed  as  an  artist,  and  then 
took  to  his  pen.  There  is  no  proof  of  failure ;  his 
art  accomplishes  all  he  sets  it  to.  Had  he,  instead 
of  being  a  gentleman's  son,  brought  up  at  the  Char- 
ter-house and  Cambridge,  been  born  in  the  parish 
of  St.  Bartholomew  the  Great,  and  apprenticed,  let 
us  say,  when  thirteen  years  old,  to  Raimbach  the 
engraver,  we  might  have  had  another,  and  in  some 
ways  a  subtler  Hogarth.  He  diaws  well;  his 
moutbs  and  noses,  his  feet,  his  children's  heads,  all 
his  ugly  and  queer  "mugs,"  are  wonderful  for  ex- 
pression and  good  drawing.  With  beauty  of  man 
or  woman  he  is  not  so  happy ;  but  his  fun  is,  we 
think,  even  more  abounding  and  fim?ner  in  his  cuts 
than  in  his  words.  The  love  of  fun  in  him  was 
something  quite  peculiar.  Some  writers  have  been 
more  witty  ;  a  few  have  had  a  more  delicate  humor  ; 
but  none,  we  think,  have  had  more  of  that  genial 
quality  which  is  described  by  the  homely  word  f/oi. 
It  lay  partly  in  imitation,  as  in  the  "  Novels  by 
Eminent  Hands."  There  were  few  things  more 
singular  in  his  intellectual  organization  than  the 
coincidence  of  absolute  originality  of  thought  and 
style  with  exquisite  mimetic  power.  But  it  oftener 
showed  itself  in  a  pure  love  of  nonsense,  —  only 
nonsense  of  the  highest  order.  He  was  very  fond 
of  abandoning  himself  to  this  temper :  witness  the 
"  Story  a  la  Mode  "  in  the  Cornhill,  some  of  the 


THACKERAY S    LITERARY    CAREER.       87 

reality-giving  touches  in  which  would  have  done 
credit  to  Gulliver.  Major  Gahagan  is  far  funnier 
than  Baron  Munchausen  ;  and  where  is  there  more 
exquisite  nonsense  than  "The  Rose  and  the  Ring," 
with  the  "  little  heggar  haby  that  laughed  and  sang 
as  droll  as  may  be  "  ?  There  is  much  of  this  spirit 
in  his  ballads,*  especially,  as  we  have  already  said, 

*  "We  subjoin  an  astonisliing  piece  of  nonsense,  —  a  species 
of  song,  or  ditty,  which  he  chanted,  we  believe,  extempore 
[in  singing,  each  line  to  be  repeated  twice] :  — 

LITTLE  BILLEE. 

There  were  3  sailors  in  Bristol  city. 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuit. 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  guzzling  Jack  and  gorging  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  Little  Billee. 

.    ]S'ow  very  soon,  they  were  so  greedy. 
They  did  n't  leave  not  one  split  pea. 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy, 
"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 

Says  gorging  Jim  to  guzzling  Jacky, 

"  We  have  no  provisions,  so  we  must  eat  we." 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy, 
"  O  gorging  Jim,  what  a  fool  you  be ! 

"There  's  little  Bill  is  young  and  tender. 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he. " 

"  0  Bill,  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you. 
So  undo  the  collar  of  vour  chemie." 


88     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

the  series  by  Pleaceman  X. ;  but  we  are  inclined  to 
think  that  it  finds  most  scope  in  his  drawings.  We 
well  remember  our  surprise  on  coming  upon  some 
of  his  earlier  works  for  Punch.  Best  of  aU  was  an 
impressive  series  illustrative  of  the  following  pas- 
sage in  the  Times  of  December  7,  1843  :  "  The 
agents  of  the  tract  societies  have  lately  had  recourse 
to  a  new  method  of  introducing  their  tracts  into 
Cadiz.  The  tracts  were  put  into  glass  bottles  se- 
curely corked ;  and,  taking  advantage  of  the  tide 

When  Bill  received  this  infumation 
He  used  Lis  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  0  let  me  say  my  catechism. 

As  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me." 

"  Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jacky, 
While  Jim  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Bill  went  up  the  maintop-gallant  mast, 
"Where  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Commandment, 
When  up  he  jumps,  "There  's  land,  I  see. 

•'  There  's  Jenisaleni  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee. 

"  There  's  the  British  fleet  a  riding  at  anchor. 
With  Admiral  Nelson,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  came  to  the  admiral's  vessel. 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee. 

But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  captain  of  a  seventy-three. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.      89 

flowing  iuto  the  harbor,  they  were  committed  to 
the  waves,  on  whose  surface  they  floated  towards 
the  town,  where  the  inhabitants  eagerly  took  them 
up  on  their  arriving  at  the  shore.  The  bottles  were 
then  uncorked,  and  the  tracts  they  contain  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  read  with  much  interest."  The 
purpose  of  the  series  is  to  hold  up  to  public  odium 
the  Dissenting  tract-smuggler,  —  Tractistero  dis- 
sentero  contrabandistero.  The  first  cut  represents 
a  sailor,  "  thirsty  as  the  seaman  naturally  is,"'  rush- 
ing through  the  surf  to  seize  the  bottle  which  has 
been  bobbing  towards  him.  '"  Sherry,  perhaps,"  he 
exclaims  to  himself  and  his  friend.  Second  cut : 
the  thirsty  expectant  has  the  bottle  in  position,  and 
is  drawing  the  cork,  another  mariner,  and  a  little 
wondering  boy,  capitally  drawn,  looking  on.  '"'  Rum, 
I  hope,"  is  the  thought  of  each.  Lastly  we  have 
the  awful  result :  our  friend  holds  up  on  the  cork- 
screw to  his  companion  and  the  universe  "  a  Span- 
ish translation  of  the  Cow-boy  of  Kensington  Com- 
mon," with  an  indignant  "  Tracts,  by  jingo  ! " 
Then  there  is  John  Balliol,  in  Miss  Ticldetohys 
Lectures,  ''cutting"  into  England  on  a  ragged 
sheltie,  which  is  trotting  like  a  maniac  over  a  series 
of  bowlders,  sorely  discomposing  the  rider,  Avhose 
kilt  is  of  the  shortest.  Even  better  is  the  cut  illus- 
trative of  the  ballad  of  "  King  Canute,"  the  king 
and  his  courtiers  on  the  shore,  with  bathing-ma- 
chines and  the  Union-jack  in  the  distance  ;  and  a 


90     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

most  preposterous  representation  of  the  non  Angl'i 
sed  Angli  story.  "We  wish  Mr.  Thackeray's  excel- 
lent friends,  the  proprietors  of  Punch,  would  re- 
print all  his  odds  aud  ends,  with  their  woodcuts. 
They  will  get  the  laughter  and  gratitude  of  mankind 
if  they  do. 

He  is,  as  far  as  Ave  recollect,  the  only  great  au- 
thor Avho  illustrated  his  own  works.  This  gives  a 
singular  completeness  to  the  result.  "When  his  pen 
has  said  its  say,  then  comes  his  pencil  and  adds  its 
own  felicity.  Take  the  original  edition  of  the  Book 
of  Snohs,  all  those  delicious  Christmas  little  quartos, 
especially  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball  and  the  Pi.ose  and  the 
Ping  (one  of  the  most  perfectly  realized  ideas  we 
know  of),  and  see  how  complete  is  the  duet  between 
the  eye  and  the  mind,  between  word  and  figure. 
There  is  an  etching  in  the  Paris  Sketch-Book  which 
better  deserves  to  be  called  "  high  art "  than  most 
of  the  class  so  called.  It  is  Majesty  in  the  person 
of  "  Le  Grand  Monarque  "  in  and  stripped  of  its  ex- 
ternals, Avhich  are  there  also  by  themselves.  The 
lean  and  slippered  old  pantaloon  is  tottering  peev- 
ishly on  his  staff,  his  other  hand  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket ;  his  head  absolutely  bald  ;  his  whole  aspect 
pitiable  and  forlorn,  querulous  and  absurd.  To  his 
left  is  his  royal  self,  in  all  his  glory  of  high-heeled 
boots,  three-storied  flowing  wig,  his  orders,  aud 
sword,  and  all  his  "  dread  magnificence,"  as  we 
know  him  in  his  pictures  ;  on  his  right  we  behold. 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     91 

aud  somehow  feel  as  if  the  old  creature,  too,  is  in 
awe  of  them,  —  his  clothes,  per  se,  —  the  "  prop- 
erties "'  of  the  great  European  actor,  set  ingeniously 
up,  and  looking  as  grand  and  much  steadier  than 
with  him  inside.  The  idea  and  the  execution  are 
lull  of  genius.  The  frontispiece  of  the  same  book 
contains  a  study  of  Heads,  than  which  Hogarth 
certainly  never  did  anything  better.  These  explan- 
atory lines  are  below  the  picture  :  — 

"  Numljer  1  '5  an  ancient  Carlist ;  number  3  a  Paris  artist ; 
Gloomily  there  stands  het^^-een  them  number  2,  a  Bona- 

partist ; 
In  the  middle  is  King  Louis  Philip  standing  at  his  ease. 
Guarded  by  a  loyal  grocer,  and  a  serjeant  of  police ; 

4  '3  the  people  in  a  passion  ;  6  a  priest  of  pious  mien ; 

5  a  gentleman  of  fashion  copied  from  a  magazine." 

Xo  words  can  do  justice  to  the  truth  and  power  of 
this  group  of  characters  :  it  gives  a  history  of  France 
during  the  Orleans  dynasty. 

We  give  a  facsimile  *  of  a  drawing  sent  by  him  to 
a  friend,  with  the  following  note  :  — 

'•'  Behold  a  drawing  instead  of  a  letter.  I  've  been  think- 
ing of  writing  you  a  beautiful  one  ever  so  long,  but,  etc., 
etc.  And  instead  of  doing  my  duty  this  morning,  I  began 
this  here  drawing,  and  will  pay  your  debt  some  other  day, 
—  no,  fart  of  your  debt.  I.  intend  to  owe  the  rest,  and 
like  to  owe  it,  and  tliink  I  'm  sincerely  grateful  to  you 
alwavs,  mv  dear  sooJ  friends. 

'^W.  M.  T." 

*  See  Troutispiece. 


92     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

This  drawing  is  a  good  specimen  of  liis  work ;  it 
tells  its  own  story,  as  every  drawing  slioiild.  Here 
is  the  great  lexicographer,  with  his  ponderous,  shuf- 
fling tread,  his  thick  lips,  his  head  bent  down,  his 
book  close  to  his  purblind  eyes,  himself  totvs  in  illo, 
reading  as  he  fed,  greedily  and  fast.  Beside  him 
simpers  the  clumsy  and  inspired  Oliver,  in  his  new 
plum-colored  coat ;  his  eyes  bent  down  in  an  ecstasy 
of  delight,  for  is  he  not  far  prouder  of  his  visage, 
and  such  a  visage !  and  of  his  coat,  than  of  his  art- 
less genius  ?  We  all  know'  about  that  coat,  and  how 
INIr.  Filby  never  got  paid  for  it.  There  he  is  be- 
hind his  Avindow  in  sartorial  posture,  his  uplifted 
goose  arrested,  his  eye  following  w^istfully,  and  not 
without  a  sense  of  glory  and  dread,  that  coat  and 
man.  His  journeyman  is  grinning  at  him ;  he  is 
paid  Aveekly,  and  has  no  risk.  And  then  what  a 
genuine  bit  of  Thackeray,  the  street  boy  and  his 
dear  little  admiring  sister !  —  there  they  are,  step- 
ping out  in  mimicry  of  the  great  two.  Observe 
the  careful,  honest  Avork,  and  how  the  turn  of  the 
left  foot  of  the  light-hearted  and  heeled  gamin,  — 
whose  toes,  much  innocent  of  shoes,  have  a  prehen- 
sile look  about  them,  suggestive  of  the  Huxley 
gi-andfather,  —  is  corrected,  as  also  Dr.  Goldsmith's. 
He  could  never  let  anything  remain  if  it  was  un- 
true. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  imagine  better  criticisms 
of  art  than  those  from  Mr.  Thackerav's  hand   in 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     93 

Fraser,  in  Punch,  in  a  kindly  and  beautiful  paper 
on  our  inimitable  John  Leech  in  the  Quarterly,  in 
a  Roundabout  on  Rubens,  and  throughout  his  sto- 
ries, —  especially  the  Neiocomes,  —  wherever  art 
conies  in.  He  touches  the  matter  to  the  quick,  — 
and  touches  nothing  else ;  and,  while  sensitive  to 
all  true  and  great  art,  he  detects  and  detests  all  that 
is  false  or  mean.  He  is  not  so  imaginative,  not  so 
impassioned  anA  glorious,  not  so  amazing  in  illus- 
tration, and  in  painting  better  than  pictures,  as  Mr. 
Ruskin,  who  has  done  more  for  art  and  its  true  in- 
terests than  all  other  writers.  But  he  is  more  to 
be  trusted  because  he  is  more  objective,  more  cool, 
more  critical  in  the  true  sense.  He  sees  everything 
by  the  lumen  siccum,  though  it  by  no  means  follows 
that  he  does  not  feel  as  well  as  see ;  but  here,  as  in 
everything  else,  his  art  "  has  its  seat  in  reason,  and 
is  judicious."  Here  is  his  description  of  Tm-ner's 
Old  Temeraire,  from  a  paper  on  the  Royal  Academy 
in  Fraser.  We  can  give  it  no  higher  praise  than 
that  it  keeps  its  own  with  Ruskin's  -.  — 

"I  must  request  you  to  turn  your  attention  to  a  noble 
river  piece,  by  J.  W.  M.  Turner,  Esq.,  R.  A.,  '  The  Fighting 
Temeraire,'  as  grand  a  painting  as  ever  figured  on  the  -walls 
of  any  academy,  or  came  from  the  easel  of  any  painter. 
Tlie  old  Temeraire  is  dragged  to  her  last  home  by  a  little, 
spiteful,  diabolical  steamer.  A  mighty  red  sun,  amidst  a  host 
of  flaring  clouds,  sinks  to  rest  on  one  side  of  the  picture, 
and  illumines  a  river  that  seems  interminable,  and  a  count- 
less navy  that  fades  away  into  such  a  wonderful  distance  as 


94     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

never  was  painted  before.  The  little  demon  of  a  s^eaoier 
is  belching  out  a  volume  (.why  do  1  say  a  volume  V  not  a  hun- 
dred volumes  could  express  it)  of  foul,  lurid,  red-hot,  .malig- 
nant smoke,  paddling  furiously,  and  lashing  up  the  weter 
round  about  it;  while  behind  it  (a  cold,  gray  moon  looking 
down  on  it),  slow,  siad,  and  majestic,  follows  the  brave  old 
ship,  with  death,  as  it  v^cre,  written  on  her it  is  ab- 
surd, you  will  say  isnd  with  a  great  deal  of  reason),  for  Tit- 
marsh  or  any  other  Briton  to  grow  so  politically  enthusiastic 
aijout  a  four-foot  ci/ivas,  representing  a  ship,  a  steamer,  a 
river,  and  a  sunset.  Rut  herein  surely  lies  the  power  of  the 
great  artist,  lie  makes  you  see  and  think  of  a  great  deal 
more  than  the  objects  before  you ;  he  knows  how  to  soothe 
or  to  intoxicate,  to  hre  o'c  to  depress,  by  a  few  notes,  oi 
forms,  or  colors,  of  whica  we  v~:annot  trace  the  eftect  to  the 
source,  but  only  acknowledge  the  power.  I  recollect  some 
years  ago,  at  the  theatre  at  AVeiniar,  hearing  Beethoven's 
'  Battle  of  Vittoria,'  in  which,  amidst  the  storm  of  glorious 
music,  the  air  of  'God  save  the  King'  was  introduced. 
Tlie  very  instant  it  begun,  every  Englishman  in  the  house 
was  bolt  upright,  and  so  stood  reverently  until  the  air  was 
played  out.  Why  so  ?  rroin  some  such  thrill  of  excitement 
as  makes  us  glow  and  rejoice  over  Mr.  Turner  and  his 
'  Fighting  Temeraire,'  which  I  am  sure,  when  the  art  of 
translating  colors  into  poetry  or  music  shall  be  discovered, 
will  be  found  to  be  a  magniticent  national  ode  or  piece  of 
music." 

When  speaking  of  T/ie  Slave  Ship  by  the  same 
amazing  artist,  he  says,  with  delightful  naivete  :  "  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  sublime  or  ridiculous,"  — 
a  characteristic  instance  of  his  outspoken  truthful- 
ness ;  and  he  lays  it  down  that  the  ''  first  quality  of 
an  artist  is  to  have  a  large  heart,"  believing  that  all 
art,  all  imaginative  work  of  the  highest  order,  must 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     95 

originate  iu  and  be  addressed  to  the  best  powers  of 
the  soul,  must  "  submit  the  shows  of  things  to  the 
desires  of  the  mind." 

Mr.  TroUope  says,  in  the  Cornhill  for  this  Feb- 
niary,  "that  which  the  world  will  most  want  to 
know  of  Thackeray  is  the  eflfect  which  his  writings 
have  produced."  In  one  sense  of  the  word,  the 
world  is  not  likely  ever  to  find  this  out ;  it  is  a 
matter  which  each  man  must  detennine  for  himself. 
But  the  world  can  perhaps  ascertain  what  special 
services  Mr.  Thackeray  has  rendered ;  and  it  is  this 
probably  which  jNIr.  TroUope  means.  His  great 
service  has  been  in  his  exposure  of  the  prevailing 
faults  of  his  time.  Among  the  foremost  are  the 
faults  of  affectation  and  pretence,  but  there  is  one  yet 
more  grievous  than  these,  - — •  the  sceptical  spirit  of 
the  age.  This  he  has  depicted  in  the  gentlest  and 
saddest  of  all  his  books,  Pendennis  :  — 

"And  it  will  be  seen  that  the  lamentable  stage  to  -wliich 
his  logic  at  present  has  brought  him"  (Arthur  Pendennis) 
"  is  one  of  general  scepticism  and  sneering  acquiescence  in 
tlie  world  as  it  is ;  or  if  you  like  so  to  call  it,  a  belief  quali- 
fied with  scorn  in  all  things  extant And  to  what  does 

this  easy  and  sceptical  life  lead  a  man  ?  Friend  Arthur  was 
a  Sadducee,  and  the  Baptist  might  be  in  the  wilderness 
shouting  to  the  poor,  who  were  listening  with  all  their 
might  and  faith  to  the  preacher's  awful  accents  and  denun- 
ciations of  wrath  or  woe  or  salvation ;  and  our  friend  the 
Sadducee  would  turn  his  sleek  mule  with  a  shrug  and  a 
smile  from  the  crowd,  and  go  liome  to  the  shade  of  his  ter- 
race, and  muse  over  preacher  and  audience,  and  tiu'n  to  his 


96      Thackeray's  literary  career. 

roll  of  Plato,  or  his  pleasant  Greek  song-book  babbling  of 
honey  and  Hybla,  and  nymphs  and  fountains  and  love.  To 
what,  -vve  say,  does  this  scepticism  lead?  It  leads  a  man  to 
a  shameful  loneliness  and  selfishness,  so  to  speak,  —  the 
more  shameful  because  it  is  so  good-humored  and  conscience- 
less and  serene.  Conscience!  What  is  conscience ?  Why 
accept  remorse  ?  What  is  public  or  private  faith  ?  Myth- 
uses  alike  enveloped  in  enormous  tradition." 

The  delineation  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  but  it  is 
true.  The  feeling  hardly  deserves  to  be  called  scep- 
ticism ;  it  is  rather  a  calm  indiffcrentism,  a  putting 
aside  of  all  things  sacred.  And  as  the  Sadducees  of 
Judsea  were,  on  the  -whole,  better  men  than  the 
Pharisees,  so  this  modern  Sadducean  feeling  pre- 
vails not  only  among  the  cultivated  classes,  but 
among  those  conspicuously  honorable  and  upright. 
These  men,  in  fact,  want  spiritual  guides  and  teach- 
ers. The  clergy  do  not  supply  this  want ;  most  of 
them  refuse  to  acknowledge  its  existence ;  Mr. 
Thackeray,  Avith  his  fearless  truthfulness,  sees  it  and 
tells  it.  To  cure  it  is  not  within  his  province.  As 
a  lay-preacher,  only  the  secondary  principles  of  mo- 
rality are  at  his  command.  "  Be  each,  pray  God,  a 
gentleman,"  is  his  highest  sanction.  But  though 
he  cannot  tell  the  afflicted  whither  to  turn,  it  is  no 
slight  thing  to  have  laid  bare  the  disorder  from 
which  so  many  suffer,  and  which  all,  with  culpable 
cowardice,  study  to  conceal.  And  he  does  more 
than  lay  bare  the  disorder  ;  he  convinces  us  how 
serious  it  is.     He  does  this  bv  showing  us  its  evil 


THACKERAY  S    LITERARY    CAREER.         \)i 

effect  on  a  good  and  kindly  nature.  Xo  teaching 
can  be  more  impressive  than  the  contrast  between 
Pendennis  under  the  influence  of  this  sceptical 
spirit,  and  Harrington,  over  whom,  crushed  as  he 
is  by  hopeless  misfortune,  it  has  no  power. 

The  minor  vices  of  aff"ectation  and  pretension  he 
assails  directly.  To  do  this  was  his  especial  mission 
from  the  first.  What  success  may  have  attended 
his  efforts  we  cannot  certainly  tell.  It  is  to  be 
feared,  however,  that,  despite  his  teaching,  snobs, 
like  poverty,  will  never  cease  out  of  the  land.  But 
all  who  feel  guilty,  —  and  every  one  of  us  is  guilty 
more  or  less,  —  and  who  desire  to  amend,  should 
use  the  means :  the  "  Book  of  Snobs "  should  be 
read  carefully  at  least  once  a  year.  His  was  not 
the  hortatoiy  method.  He  had  no  notion  that  much 
could  be  done  by  telling  people  to  be  good.  He 
found  it  more  telling  to  show  that  by  being  other- 
wise they  were  in  danger  of  becoming  unhappy, 
ridiculous,  and  contemptible.  Yet  he  did  not  alto- 
gether neglect  positive  teaching.  Many  passages 
might  be  taken  from  his  works  —  even  from  the 
remorseless  "Book  of  Snobs"  itself — which  in- 
culcate the  beauty  of  goodness  ;  and  the  whole  ten- 
dency of  his  writings,  from  the  first  to  the  last  line, 
he  penned  during  a  long  and  active  literary  life,  has 
invariably  been  to  inspire  reverence  for  manliness 
and  purity  and  truth.  And  to  sum  up  all,  in  rep- 
rrs'utirg  a  ter  his  measure  the  characteristics  of  the 


98      Thackeray's  literaey  career. 

age,  Mr.  Thackeray  has  discharged  one  of  the  high- 
est functions  of  a  Avriter.  His  keen  insight  into 
modern  life  has  enabled  him  to  show  his  readers 
that  life  fully  ;  his  honesty  and  high  tone  of  mind 
has  enabled  him  to  do  this  truly.  Hence  he  is  the 
healthiest  of  writers.  In  his  pages  we  find  no  false 
stimulus,  no  pernicious  ideals,  no  vulgar  aims.  We 
are  led  to  look  at  things  as  they  really  are,  and  to 
rest  satisfied  with  our  place  among  them.  Each 
man  learns  that  he  can  do  much  if  he  preserves 
moderation ;  that  if  he  goes  beyond  his  proper 
sphere  he  is  good  for  nothing.  He  teaches  us  to 
find  a  fitting  field  for  action  in  our  peculiar  studies 
or  business,  to  reap  lasting  happiness  in  the  affec- 
tions which  are  common  to  all.  Our  vague  long- 
ings are  quieted  ;  our  foolish  ambitions  checked ;  we 
are  soothed  into  contentment  Avith  obscurity,  — en- 
couraged in  an  honest  determination  to  do  our  duty. 
A  "Roundabout  Paper"  on  the  theme  Nil  nisi 
bo7inm  concludes  thus  :  — 

"  Here  arc  two  literary  men  gone  to  their  account ;  and, 
lans  Deo,  as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clean. 
Here  is  no  need  of  apologies  for  shortcomings,  or  expla- 
nations of  vices  which  would  have  been  virtues  but  for 
unavoidable,  etc.  Here  are  two  examples  of  men  most  dif- 
ferently gifted:  each  pursuing  his  calling;  each  speaking 
his  truth  as  God  bade  him  ;  each  honest  in  his  life ;  just  and 
irreproachable  in  his  dealings ;  dear  to  his  friends ;  honored 
by  his  country;  beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  the 
fortunate  lot  of  both  to  give  incalculable  happiness  and 
delight  to  the  world,  which  thanks  tliem  in  return  with  an 


THACKERA'X'S    LITERARY    CAREER.         99 

immense  kindliness,  respect,  aifection.  It  may  not  1)e  our 
chance,  brotlier-scribe,  to  be  endowed  witli  such  merit  or 
rewarded  with  such  fame.  But  the  rewards  of  these  men 
are  rewards  paid  to  our  service.  We  may  not  win  the  baton 
or  epaulettes ;  but  God  give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honor 
of  the  flag  !  " 

The  prayer  was  granted  :  he  had  strength  given 
liim  always  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag ;  and 
now  his  name  is  worthy  to  be  placed  beside  the 
names  of  Washington  Irving  and  Lord  Macaulay, 
as  of  one  no  whit  less  deserving  the  praise  of  these 
noble  words. 

We  have  seen  no  satisfactory  portrait  of  Mr. 
Thackeray.  We  like  the  photographs  better  than 
the  prints ;  and  we  have  an  old  daguerreotype  of 
him  without  his  spectacles  which  is  good ;  but  no 
photograph  can  give  more  of  a  man  than  is  in  any 
one  ordinary  —  often  very  ordinaiT  —  look  of  him; 
it  is  only  Sir  Joshua  and  his  brethren  who  can 
paint  a  man  liker  than  himself.  Lawrence's  first 
drawing  has  much  of  his  thoroughbred  look,  but 
the  head  is  too  much  tossed  up  and  nif.  The  pho- 
tograph from  the  later  drawing  by  the  same  hand 
we  like  better :  he  is  alone,  and  reading  with  his 
book  close  up  to  his  eyes.  This  gives  the  prodig- 
ious size  and  solidity  of  his  head,  and  the  sweet 
mouth.  We  have  not  seen  that  by  Mr.  Watts,  but, 
if  it  is  as  full  of  power  and  delicacy  as  his  Tenny- 
son, it  will  be  a  comfort. 

Though  in  no  sense  a  selfish  man,  he  had  a  won- 


100     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

derful  interest  in  himself  as  au  object  of  study,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  delightful  and  unlike  any- 
thing else  than  to  listen  to  him  on  himself.  He 
often  draws  his  own  likeness  in  his  books.  In  the 
"  Fraserians,"  by  Maclise,  in  Fmser,  is  a  slight 
sketch  of  him  in  his  unknown  youth ;  and  there 
is  an  excessively  funny  and  not  unlike  extravaganza 
of  him  by  Doyle  or  Leech,  in  the  Month,  a  little 
short-lived  periodical,  edited  by  Albert  Smith.  He 
is  represented  lecturing,  when  certainly  he  looked 
his  best.  We  give  below  what  is  like  him  in  face 
as  well  as  in  more.     The  tired,  young,  kindly  wag 


is  sitting  and  looking  into  space,  his  mask  and  his 
jester's  rod  lying  idly  on  his  knees. 

The  foregoing  estimate  of  his  genius  must  stand 
instead  of  any  special  portraiture  of  the  man.  Yet 
we  would  mention  two  leading  traits  of  character 
traceable,  to  a  large  extent,  in  his  works,  though 
finding  no  appropriate  place  in  a  literary  criticism 


Thackeray's  literary  i  areeh.     101 

of  them.  One  was  the  deep  steady  melaucholy  of 
his  nature.  He  was  fond  of  telling  how  on  one 
occasion,  at  Paris,  he  found  himself  in  a  great 
crowded  salon ;  and  looking  from  the  one  end 
across  the  sea  of  heads,  being  in  Swift's  place  of 
calm  in  a  crowd,*  he  saw  at  the  other  end  a  strange 
visage,  staring  at  hira  with  an  expression  of  comi- 
cal woebegoneness.  After  a  little  he  found  that 
this  rueful  being  was  himself  in  the  miiTor.  He 
was  not,  indeed,  morose.  He  was  alive  to  and 
thankful  for  every-day  blessings,  great  and  small : 
for  the  happiness  of  heme,  for  friendship,  for  wit 
and  music,  for  ber-ty  of  all  kinds,  for  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  "  faithful  old  gold  pen  "  ;  now  running 
into  some  felicitous  expression,  now  playing  itself 
into  some  droll  initial  letter;  uay,  even  for  the 
creature  comforts.  But  his  persistent  state,  es- 
pecially for  the  later  half  of  his  life,  was  pro- 
foundly niorne,  —  there  is  no  other  word  for  it. 
This  arose  in  part  from  temperament,  from  a  quick 
sense  of  the  littleness  and  wretchedness  of  man- 
kind. His  keen  perception  of  the  meanness  and 
vulgarity  of  the  realities  around  him  contrasted 
with  the  ideal  present  to  his  mind  could  produce 
no  other  effect.  This  feeling,  embittered  by  disap- 
pointment, acting  on  a  harsh  and  savage  nature, 
ended  in  the  sava  indigna.tio  of  Swift ;  acting  ou 

*  "  An  inch  or  two  above  it." 


102     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

the  kindly  and  too  sensitive  natui'e  of  Mr.  Thack- 
eray, it  led  only  to  compassionate  sadness.  In  part, 
too,  this  melancholy  was  the  result  of  private  ca- 
lamities. He  alludes  to  these  often  in  his  Avritings 
and  a  knowledge  that  his  sorrows  were  great  is 
necessary  to  the  perfect  appreciation  of  much  of 
his  deepest  pathos.  We  allude  to  them  here,  pain- 
ful as  the  subject  is,  mainly  because  they  have  given 
rise  to  stories,  —  some  quite  untrue,  some  even 
cruelly  injurious.  The  loss  of  his  second  child  in 
infancy  was  al\va3s  an  abiding  sorrow,  —  described 
in  the  "  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  in  a  passage  of  sur- 
passing tenderness,  too  sacred  to  be  severed  from 
its  context.  A  yet  keener  and  more  constantly 
present  affliction  was  the  illness  of  his  wife.  He 
married  her  in  Paris  when  he  was  "mewing  his 
mighty  youth,"  preparing  for  the  great  career  which 
awaited  him.  One  likes  to  think  on  these  early 
days  of  happiness,  when  he  could  draw  and  write 
with  that  loved  compauion  by  his  side  :  he  has  him- 
self sketched  the  picture  :  "  The  humblest  painter, 
be  he  ever  so  poor,  may  have  a  friend  watching  at 
his  easel,  or  a  gentle  wife  sitting  by  with  her  work 
in  her  lap,  and  with  fond  smiles  or  talk  or  silence, 
cheering  his  labors."  After  some  years  of  mar- 
riage, Mrs.  Thackeray  caught  a  fever,  brought  on 
by  imprudent  exposure  at  a  time  when  the  effects 
of  such  ailments  are  more  than  usually  lasting  both 
on  the  svstem  and  the   nerves.     She  never  after- 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     103 

wards  recovered  so  as  to  be  able  to  be  Aviih  her 
husband  and  children.  But  she  has  been  from  the 
first  intrusted  to  the  good  offices  of  a  kind  family, 
tenderly  cared  for,  surrounded  with  every  comfort 
by  his  unwearied  affection.  The  beautiful  lines  in 
the  ballad  of  the  '"'  Bouillabaisse  "  are  well  known :  — 

"  Ah  me !  how  quick  tlic  days  are  flitting  ! 

1  mind  me  of  a  time  that 's  gone, 
When  here  I  'd  sit  as  now  I  'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  j^lace,  —  but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  mc, 

—  There  's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup." 

In  one  of  the  latest  Roundabouts  we  have  this 
touching  confession :  "  I  own  for  my  part  that,  in 
reading  pages  which  this  hand  penned  formerly,  I 
often  lose  sight  of  the  text  under  my  eyes.  It  is 
not  the  words  I  see  ;  but  that  past  day ;  that  by- 
gone page  of  life's  history ;  that  tragtdy,  comedy 
it  may  be,  which  our  little  home-company  was  en- 
acting; that  merry-making  Avhich  wc  shared;  that 
funeral  which  we  followed ;  that  bitter,  bitter  grief 
which  we  buried."  But  all  who  knew  him  know 
well,  and  love  to  recall,  how  these  sorrows  were 
soothed  and  his  home  made  a  place  of  happiness  by 
his  two  daughters  and  his  mother,  who  were  his 
perpetual  companions,  delights,  and  blessings,  and 
whose  feeling  of  inestimable  loss  now  will  be  best 


104    Thackeray's  literary  career. 

borne  and  comforted  by  remembering  how  they 
were  everything  to  him,  as  he  was  to  them. 

His  sense  of  a  higher  Power,  his  reverence  and 
godly  fear,  is  felt  more  than  expressed  —  as  indeed 
it  mainly  should  always  be  — ■  in  everything  he 
wrote.  It  comes  out  at  times  quite  suddenly,  and 
stops  at  once,  in  its  full  strength.  We  could  read- 
ily give  many  instances  of  this.  One  we  give,  as 
it  occurs  very  early,  when  he  was  probably  little 
more  than  six-and-twenty  ;  it  is  from  the  paper, 
"  Madame  Sand  and  the  New  Apocalypse."  Refer- 
ring to  Henri  Heine's  frightful  Avords,  '"'  Bieu  qui  se 
menrt,''  "  Dieu  est  mort,"  and  to  the  Avild  godless- 
ness  of  Spiridion,  he  thus  bursts  out :  "0  awful, 
awful  name  of  God !  Light  unbearable !  mysteiy 
unfathomable!  vastness  immeasurable!  "Who  are 
these  who  come  forward  to  explain  the  mystery, 
and  gaze  unblinking  into  the  depths  of  the  light, 
and  measure  the  immeasurable  vastness  to  a  hair  ? 
O  name  that  God's  people  of  old  did  fear  to  utter ! 
O  light  that  God's  prophet  would  have  perished 
had  he  seen !  who  are  these  now  so  familiar  with 
it'?"  In  ordinary  intercourse  the  same  sudden 
'•  Te  Beum  "  would  occur,  always  brief  and  intense, 
like  lightning  from  a  cloudless  heaven  ;  he  seemed 
almost  ashamed,  —  not  of  it,  but  of  his  giving  it 
expression. 

"We  cannot  resist  here  recalling  one  Sunday  even- 
ing in  December,  when  he  was  walking  with  two 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     105 

friends  along  the  Dean  road,  to  the  west  of  Edin- 
burgh, —  one  of  the  noblest  outlets  to  any  city.  It 
was  a  lovely  evening,  —  such  a  sunset  as  one  never 
forgets ;  a  rich  dark  bar  of  cloud  hovered  over  the 
sun,  going  down  behind  the  Highland  hills,  lying 
bathed  in  amethystine  bloom ;  between  this  cloud 
and  the  hills  there  was  a  naiTow^  slip  of  the  pure 
ether,  of  a  tender  cowslip  color,  lucid,  and  as  if  it 
were  the  very  body  of  heaven  in  its  clearness  ;  every 
object  standing  out  as  if  etched  upon  the  sky.  The 
northwest  end  of  Corstorphine  Hill,  with  its  trees 
and  rocks,  lay  in  the  heart  of  this  pure  radiance, 
and  there  a  wooden  crane,  used  in  the  quarry  below, 
was  so  placed  as  to  assume  the  figiu-e  of  a  cross ; 
there  it  was,  unmistakable,  lifted  up  against  the  crys- 
talline sky.  All  three  gazed  at  it  silently.  As  they 
gazed,  he  gave  utterance  in  a  tremulous,  gentle,  and 
rapid  voice,  to  what  all  were  feeling,  in  the  word 
"Calvary!"  The  friends  walked  on  in  silence, 
and  then  turned  to  other  things.  All  that  evening 
he  was  very  gentle  and  serious,  speaking,  as  he  sel- 
dom did,  of  divine  things,  —  of  death,  of  sin,  of 
eternity,  of  salvation ;  expressing  his  simple  faith 
in  God  and  in  his  Saviour. 

There  is  a  passage  at  the  close  of  the  "  Rounda- 
bout Paper,"  Xo.  XXIII.,  Be  Finibus,  in  which  a 
sense  of  the  ebb  of  life  is  very  marked  :  the  Avhole 
paper  is  like  a  soliloquy.  It  opens  with  a  drawing 
of  Mr.   Punch,  with  unu^uallv  mild    eve.  retirin? 


106    Thackeray's  literary  career. 

for  the  nigfit;  he  is  putting  out  his  high-heeled 
shoes,  and  before  disappeai-ing  gives  a  wistful  look 
into  the  passage,  as  if  bidding  it  and  all  else  good- 
night. He  will  be  in  bed,  his  candle  out,  and  in 
darkness,  in  five  minutes,  and  his  shoes  found  next 
morning  at  his  door,  the  little  potentate  all  the  while 
in  his  final  sleep.  The  whole  paper  is  worth  the 
most  careful  study  ;  it  reveals  not  a  little  of  his  real 
nature,  and  unfolds  very  curiously  the  secret  of  his 
work,  the  vitality,  and  abiding  power  of  his  own 
creations;  how  he  "invented  a  certain  Costigan, 
out  of  scraps,  heel-taps,  odds  and  ends  of  charac- 
ters," and  met  the  original  the  other  day,  without 
surprise,  in  a  tavern  parlor.  The  folloAving  is  beau- 
tiful :  "  Years  ago  I  had  a  quarrel  with  a  certain 
well-known  person  (I  believed  a  statement  regard- 
ing him  which  his  friends  imparted  to  me,  and 
which  turned  out  to  be  quite  incorrect).  To  his 
dying  day  that  quarrel  was  never  quite  made  up.  1 
said  to  his  brother,  '  "Why  is  your  brother's  soul  still 
dark  against  me  ?  It  is  I  v;ho  ought  to  be  angry 
and  unforgiving,  for  I  was  in  the  icrovg.'  "  Odisse 
quern  tceseris  was  never  better  contravened.  But 
what  Ave  chiefly  refer  to  now  is  the  profound  pen- 
siveness  of  the  following  strain,  as  if  written  v.ith 
a  presentiment  of  what  was  not  then  very  far  off: 
"Another  Finis  written  :  another  milestone  on  this 
journey  from  birth  to  the  next  world.  Sure  it  is  a 
subject  for  solemn  cogitation.     Shall  we  continue 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     107 

this  story-telling  business,  and  be  voluble  to  the 
end  of  our  age  ?  "  "  Will  it  not  be  presently  time, 
0  prattler,  to  hold  your  tongue  ?  "  And  thus  he 
ends :  — 

"  01),  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull  old  pages ;  oh,  the  cares, 
the  ennui,  the  squabliles,  the  repetitions,  the  old  conversa- 
tions over  and  over  again  I  But  now  and  again  a  kind 
thought  is  recalled,  and  now  and  again  a  dear  memory.  Yet 
a  few  chapters  more,  and  then  the  last ;  after  which,  behold 
Finis  itself  comes  to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite  begins." 

He  sent  the  proof  of  this  paper  to  his  "dear 
neighbors,"  in  Onslow  Square,  to  whom  he  owed  so 
much  almost  daily  pleasure,  with  his  corrections, 
the  whole  of  the  last  paragraph  in  manuscript,  and 
above  a  first  sketch  of  it  also  in  MS.,  which  is  fuller 
and  more  impassioned.  His  fear  of  "  enthusiastic 
writing"  had  led  him,  we  think,  to  sacrifice  some- 
thing of  the  sacred  power  of  his  first  words,  which 
we  give  with  its  interlineations  :  — 

"Another  Finis,  another  slice  of  life  which  Tempiis  edax 
has  devoured !  And  I  may  have  to  write  the  word  once  or 
twice  perhaps,  and  then  an  end  of  Ends.  Finite  is  over, 
•ai^  TTi^Tc-lnr  'j-;,ir.:--"-.:g.      Oh  the  troubles,  the  cares,  the 

dispiites, 
ennui,  the  c-gTs-p-lk'j-tirr-ns,  the  repetitions,  the  old  conversa- 
tions over  and  over  again,  and  here  and  there  and  oh  the 
dehghtful  passages,  the  dear,  the  brief,  the  forever  remem- 
bered! ^i*=-tfeii  A  few  chapters  more,  and  then  the  la^t, 
and  then  behold  Finis  itself  coming  to  an  end  and  the  Infi- 
nite beginning !  " 


108     Thackeray's  literary  career. 

How  like  music  this,  —  like  one  trying  the  same 
air  in  different  ways  ;  as  it  were,  searching  out  and 
sounding  all  its  depths.  "  The  dear,  the  brief,  the 
forever  remembered";  these  are  like  a  bar  out  of 
Beethoven,  deep  and  melancholy  as  the  sea  !  He 
had  been  suffering  on  Sunday  from  an  old  and  cruel 
enemy.  He  fixed  with  his  friend  and  surgeon  to 
come  again  on  Tuesday  ;  but  with  that  dread  of  an- 
ticipated pain,  which  is  a  common  condition  of  sen- 
sibility and  genius,  he  put  him  off  with  a  note  from 
"yours  unfaithfully,  W.  M.  T."  He  went  out  on 
Wednesday  for  a  little,  and  came  home  at  ten.  He 
went  to  his  room,  suffering  much,  but  declining  his 
man's  offer  to  sit  with  him.  He  hated  to  make 
others  suffer.  He  was  heard  moving,  as  if  in  pain, 
about  twelve,  on  the  eve  of 

"That  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid,  and  virgin-mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring." 

Then  all  was  quiet,  and  then  he  must  have  died  — 
in  a  moment.  Next  morning  his  man  went  in,  and 
opening  the  windows  found  his  master  dead,  his 
arms  behind  his  head,  as  if  he  had  tried  to  take  one 
more  breath.  We  think  of  him  as  of  our  Chal- 
mers ;  found  dead  in  like  manner  ;  the  same  child- 
like, unspoiled  open  face  :  the  same  gentle  mouth  ; 
the  same  spaciousness  and  softness  of  nature  ;  the 
same  look  of  power.     "What  a  thing  to  think  of,  — 


Thackeray's  literary  career.     109 

his  lying  there  alone  in  the  dark,  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  mighty  London ;  his  mother  and  his  daughters 
asleep,  and,  it  may  be,  dreaming  of  his  goodness. 
God  help  them,  and  us  all !  AVhat  would  become  of 
us,  stumbling  along  this  our  path  of  life,  if  Ave  could 
not,  at  our  utmost  need,  stay  ourselves  on  Him  ? 

Long  years  of  sorrow,  labor,  and  pain  had  killed 
him  before  his  time.  It  was  found  after  death  how 
little  life  he  had  to  live.  He  looked  always  fresh 
Avith  that  abounding,  silver}'  hair,  and  his  young, 
almost  infantine  face,  but  he  was  worn  to  a  shadow, 
and  his  hands  wasted  as  if  by  eighty  years.  "With 
him  it  is  the  end  of  Ends  ;  finite  is  over,  and  infi- 
nite begun.  AVhat  we  all  felt  and  feel  can  never  be 
so  well  expressed  as  in  his  own  words  of  sorrow  for 
the  early  death  of  Charles  Bullei- :  — 

"  Who  kuows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blest  be  He  who  took  and  gave ! 
"Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine. 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ? 
"We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  riiies  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  tlie  respite  or  the  blow, 

That 's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall." 


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